


Coming Home Part Two

by ghostwulf



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: All the things the first one had and more, F/M, hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 119,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwulf/pseuds/ghostwulf
Summary: [This is a sequel. Please read Coming Home Part One first.]If the gang thought facing Marik in Battle City was harrowing, it's nothing compared to what they'll face in the finals.(Anime and manga influences, OCxYY, other ships, updates every Thursday)





	1. Prologue

_Egypt: September 16, 1995_

Even before his death, with nearly 3,000 years of life behind him, time was a concept that rarely concerned Shadi. While sitting in a market stall beneath a canopy to ward off the sun, it amused him to watch the other vendors leap around like monkeys, screaming to be noticed, haggling over a single coin like it made the difference between dinner and an empty belly, all of them in a hurry from one customer to the next, from one day of market to the next, while giving no thought to what would be left when all the customers and days were bled out. They begrudged every moment that wasn’t a sale as wasted.

“I want this stall,” someone demanded gruffly.

The two tombkeepers from Shadi’s clan acting as guards greeted the man’s declaration with cold stares.

“It’s been empty for years,” the man insisted. “And it’s a choice spot. What good does it do anyone to have you white-robes stand here in the sun all day selling nothing and wasting your lives? Sell it to me.”

“He’s right, you know.” Shadi leaned forward. “You could at least come out of the sun.”

Although the tombkeepers could hear him, they gave no response, either to him or the man. They were loyal, and Shadi appreciated that. They were also a bit stiff. It was a natural side-effect of the calling.

Shadi reclined again. “Tell him after my business is finished, he can buy the stall.”

After all, the clan didn’t need it. Those who sold at market to provide for the others already had spots and wares of their own. Shadi’s stall had once been important to him, had been a way for him to pass the time and enjoy the open air while waiting for the years to wear themselves out and bring him to the prophesied time.

But now the tide had come in, and there was only one matter left to finish in Egypt before he was called once more across the sea.

“Master Shadi says once his business is completed, you may purchase the stall.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Where’s your master, eh? Where did he say that from?”

But the guards were silent once more.

“Fine, then. When’s this business done?”

Shadi glanced up at the clear sky. “After the treasure of the Valley of Kings is given in gift to a child. Before the first sun’s rising upon the pharaoh’s renewed form. After the clan cries for the corruption of her own. Before the heavy eye turns from visions of beauty to visions of greed.”

Wisely, the guards did not relay his message. Just as a man who lived all his life on land could not fathom navigating an endless ocean by stars alone, so an unconsecrated man could not fathom navigating life by the word of prophecy and inspiration. But it was a language familiar to Shadi.

He gave a faint smile. “Tell him within the month.”

They relayed the message, and after promising to buy the stall at the stroke of midnight at the month’s end, the man moved on his way.

Always impatient. Always in a hurry.

The afternoon passed steadily. Shadi kept a watchful eye on the street but not a frantic one. His thoughts were unconcerned; whether the man made his appearance today or the next day or the next made no difference. He would come when he came, just as Pegasus Crawford had, and he would claim the Millennium Item fated to him, just as Pegasus Crawford had.

And just before the light faded, when more than half the market was already packed up and gone, Kazue Bakura came hurrying down the street.

Shadi stood. “It’s him.”

The two guards stiffened.

Mr. Bakura hurried from stand to stand only to be waved off and turned away as vendors packed their wares and loaded their carts. The haste that busied them to gather as many customers as possible during the day now applied itself to getting home as quickly as possible.

“Come back tomorrow,” they told him.

“I want to buy—”

“Come back tomorrow.”

Shadi leaned forward. He would have braced his hands on the table had it been possible. As it was, he stepped into it slightly, angling himself for a view of the Japanese gentleman who’d arrived in Egypt months earlier on a doomed expedition. Shadi had seen him then, of course, but their encounter wasn’t fated until later, so he waited.

Now the time had come.

Mr. Bakura spotted the one stall not in a rush to leave, and relief washed over his face. He came to a stop in front of the tombkeepers, bowing his head quickly before consulting a book in his hand that seemed to be a tourist’s guide to common phrases in Arabic.

“I want to buy a . . . souvenir,” he said stiffly, tripping over the pronunciation.

Shadi’s sharp eyes took in the disheveled man from head to foot. His bleached hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his face was streaked with sweat and dust, as were his clothes. The hat on his head was barely holding on, but he hadn’t seemed to notice yet.

“Tell him he may speak Japanese.”

The guard on the right, more versed in languages than his comrade, relayed the message.

“Really?” Mr. Bakura’s entire frame sagged as he released a sigh. He slapped the book closed and began peering at the stall’s table. “I need to buy something for my son. It’s his birthday. Well, I may have missed it by a few days—anyway, what have you got?”

“Nothing fit for a child,” Shadi said honestly.

After the guard spoke, Mr. Bakura patted his shoulder carelessly. “He’s not much of a child, and anything will do.”

Shadi’s expression tightened, but this was not a prophecy he had a mind to interfere with.

“Open the box,” he said to the tombkeepers.

The guard on the left reached for a thin box hidden beneath a stack of shawls. He pried the lid off, set it aside.

Mr. Bakura’s eyes went wide.

“Tell him it’s a dangerous artifact.”

Mr. Bakura stepped closer. He unfolded a set of narrow glasses from his pocket and slid them on, leaning closer to examine the Millennium Ring sitting innocuously on its bed of velvet lining.

“Tell him the one who wears it will be possessed by an evil spirit.”

“This is perfect,” the man murmured to himself, lifting his glasses, then lowering them again. “I can tell him I found it in an expedition.” He glanced up at the guards. “How much?”

Shadi frowned. “Tell him again.”

Halfway through, the man waved a hand. “No, I heard you the first time—possession, dangerous. It’s perfect. Ryou goes wild for all that occult stuff, and I can only buy him so many Ouija boards before I feel like I may as well not send him anything at all.”

“This is no joke, Mr. Bakura.”

The man took a step back, looking wary for the first time. “How’d you know my name?”

“Our meeting today has been prophesied for many years.”

“Oh, neat. How about a prophecy discount?”

Shadi released a sigh. He looked at the Millennium Ring, which seemed at once to be both quivering with energy and sitting perfectly still. It was perhaps the most dangerous of all the items, and the thought of it in a child’s hands was sobering.

“Tell him if he can take it without dying, it’s his.”

Kazue Bakura was not the first to fit the signs of the prophecies. Only a few months before, Shadi had offered the ring to another. That man had barely touched it before losing his mind to the shadows. It had been the same with the eye—two others had failed before it accepted Pegasus.

Mr. Bakura laughed as if the statement had been a joke. “Alright, I’ll hold you to your word! No more bartering!”

Then he lifted the ring fearlessly from its box.

The five daggers around its bottom edge shivered.

Its Eye of Horus flashed with light.

Mr. Bakura’s eyes glazed.

And Shadi waited.

Minutes ticked by in silence. The last of the light faded from the sky. One of the tombkeepers lit a torch, set it in a sconce to the side of the stall.

Then Mr. Bakura shook his head, coming back to himself. The glow from the ring vanished.

“Pardon me, must have zoned out there,” he said.

“As promised,” Shadi said, “the ring is yours.”

Without either protest or thanks, the man moved off, artifact in hand. Shadi’s business was concluded, and the last of the seven Millennium Items had found a user.

“Master Shadi, what now?”

Shadi moved instinctively to put a hand on the tombkeeper’s shoulder, then stopped himself. After thousands of years with a body and only seven without, he still forgot himself at times.

“Now, all the pieces are on the board,” he said, “and for better or worse, the shadow war begins again.”


	2. Just Getting Started

_Japan: August 30, 1996_

Mai Valentine had been a loner all her life. From three years old, she knew how to navigate the kitchen, how to move a chair to reach whatever she needed. From thirteen, she knew how to navigate society, how to wink at the right boy and flatter the right teacher to get whatever she wanted.

But from twenty-three, everything changed. At twenty-three, she entered Duelist Kingdom, and when she looked at Joey Wheeler as an opponent, she found instead her first real friend. The tournament had lasted three days, but three days were enough to show her something she’d never learned before in all those years. And even though she had to leave the people behind when she left the island, she carried the knowledge with her.

The knowledge that being a loner was not real happiness or real power.

“Shut your face!” Tristan shouted, grabbing Joey in a chokehold. “That is _not_ how it went down!”

“Cross my heart!” Joey gasped out, laughing so hard he was crying.

Anzu smacked Tristan’s shoulder. “Cut it out before you knock over the food table.”

Without a word, Mai reached out and gently took Serenity’s shoulders, moving her out of the way as the boys wrestled by. They were ridiculous teenagers, but they were genuine, and Mai’s heart felt light just to see them again.

“Come, my charmer,” she said, smiling at Serenity, “gather shrimp before the monsters consume it all.”

After grabbing a plate, she dished a variety of food for the shy girl, who accepted it with a bow. Anzu forcibly shouldered past the boys as she gathered her own preferences. The five of them were crowded around the food table Kaiba’s employees had set out for the finalists. The other finalists had been led to the lounge with them but never joined the main group. Duke had gathered a plate of food and left quietly. Mai was fairly certain Ryou had snuck food into his pockets while pretending to leave with only a drink. The two purple robes had left immediately without touching the table at all. Joey and Tristan had already gathered two plates of food each at a nearby dining table and were back to collect a third, although the plates seemed to be forgotten in their lively conversation.

With a gentle push on the shoulder, Mai guided Serenity to one of the lounge’s round, metal tables. Anzu joined them as well, relaxing into her silver chair with a sigh.

“If they break anything, Kaiba’s gonna throw them out a window,” she said, “and I probably won’t argue.”

Serenity giggled. “I’m glad Joey has friends he can have fun with.”

“You have those friends now as well.” Mai smiled, cutting into the fish fillet she’d chosen as main course. “Allez, allez! Tell me all about you! Joey said very little in Duelist Kingdom, only the surgery.”

The girl blushed becomingly. “I don’t know how much there is to tell.”

“Things you do. Things you like. All things.”

While Mai regularly interjected “Incroyable!” between her words and between bites of food, Serenity outlined her schooling in America—the biology studies she enjoyed so much and was president of a club for, the tennis team she’d worked hard to join.

Anzu shook her head. “Joey never said you were an athlete!”

At that, Serenity’s expression fell. “I’m not sure he knows. Mom doesn’t let me call very often, and she won’t let me send letters at all because of the address.” She ducked her head, pushed a strawberry around on her plate. “There’s lots I don’t know about him, too.”

Mai reached out to rub a hand across the girl’s back. “What matters most is that you can see him now. And there are no parents here, so enjoy the moments.”

“Mai’s right,” Anzu agreed, but her eyes were across the room on Yuugi, who’d just entered.

Serenity nodded. She smiled over at Joey, who noticed her gaze and waved even while still stuffing a week’s worth of noodles into his mouth.

The floor shuddered, and a gentle weight pressed on Mai’s skin, the familiar feeling of movement in the vessel around her. Although there were no windows in the lounge, she knew they were flying at last.

“Yuugi,” Anzu called out. She pointed to the last empty seat at their table.

Yuugi nodded and finished gathering food. Then he came to join them, setting down a bowl of rice and a plate of chicken wings and vegetables.

“Your friend came?” Mai asked.

“Yori?” He smiled. “Yeah, she made it. Ishizu’s here, too, so that gives us all ten finalists.”

Anzu glanced at the hallway. “Yori wasn’t hungry?”

Yuugi paused, a bite of rice halfway to his mouth. The tips of his ears colored. “I didn’t actually talk to her. But I think she went to ask Seto about something?”

Anzu frowned. “She knows Kaiba?”

He shrugged, filling his mouth with rice and squash.

Mai raised an eyebrow. “Does not everyone know Kaiba?”

“Fair point.” Anzu shook her head. “People usually just don’t want to talk to him.”

“Understandable, considering you will get fire back for your response.”

Serenity gave a nervous giggle. “He does seem kind of intimidating.”

“Intimidating? Mais non. He is a child with tantrums.”

“Hey, now!” Yuugi looked up with a pained expression. “Seto’s not that bad.”

Mai smirked. “Says the boy who even said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ while addressing Pegasus the Snake, who was guilty of kidnapping.”

Yuugi blushed. Anzu laughed.

“Without his Millennium Item, Pegasus isn’t all bad either,” the boy mumbled into his rice.

Anzu’s expression changed at that, gaining an intriguing light.

Mai raised an eyebrow. “Ma chère, you are thinking of an idea.”

But before they could continue, an announcement sounded from speakers in the ceiling.

_“Attention, Battle City finalists!”_

Joey shrieked, nearly dropping a plate of food. Tristan laughed so hard he doubled over.

The man’s voice was familiar, likely one of the KaibaCorp employees from the stadium. He continued: _“We are quickly gaining altitude and will soon proceed with the duels of the semi-finals. You have the next forty minutes to rest, eat, refresh, and prepare in any way you wish before the first duel will begin. The participants of each of the five semi-final matches will be decided by lottery in the lounge.”_

“Ah.” Mai pointed knowingly to an obtrusive machine in the corner of the room. It was built with three Blue-Eyes White Dragon heads around a large glass globe, and the inside held a collection of white ping-pong balls. Each ball probably corresponded to one finalist.

_“Use your time wisely. Battle City continues in forty minutes!”_

As the message ended, Joey let out a whoop, again nearly spilling his food. Mai smiled.

“So eager to lose to me, are you?” she called out.

“I ain’t losin’ to nobody!”

Yuugi grinned. “We’ll see about that, Joey!”

“Who beat you to the finals, Yuug’? You too, Mai!”

“Rude,” Yuugi said, but he laughed.

Mai shook her head. “Stop counting early chickens.”

As she spoke, her eyes watched Anzu, who’d left the table during the announcement and gone back to the buffet as if to gather more food—but she’d thrown her own plate in the trash and taken a new one. After filling it, she headed for the door with purpose.

“Excuse me, my friends,” Mai said quickly, rising from the table.

When she stepped into the hallway, she called out, “Anzu!”

The girl came to a rigid stop as if she’d been caught stealing. She turned slowly, laughed nervously.

Mai approached her with a smile. “Who are you taking food to, ma chère? Surely not Monsieur Kaiba.”

“Of course not!” Anzu blushed.

“Mais non, of course not. Then who?”

The girl shifted her weight. Let out a sigh. She mumbled her response too low to be heard, and Mai leaned forward.

“Pardon?”

The girl sighed again. “Marik? The guy who . . . made an entrance.”

“You have exotic tastes.” Mai frowned. “Perhaps dangerous.”

“No, I know. And it’s not like that at all. I just think he might need . . . a friend.”

Mai wasn’t sure the girl believed her own words.

“You should not go alone.”

Anzu shook her head. “I’ll be okay. It’s really no big deal. I mean, I’m dropping off a plate of food. That’s all.”

Mai tapped her foot, folded her arms. It wasn’t her place to be anyone’s commander, but she was bothered nonetheless.

“Your friends would worry,” she finally said.

“You _are_ here worrying.” Anzu smiled. “I didn’t tell anyone because I don’t want to make a fuss. I’ll be right back, and I’ll be just fine. Promise.”

“Very well.” Mai shrugged. “But if you do not return, I will slit his throat with cards.”

“Mai!” Anzu gasped.

“Incorrect expression? I stand by it the same.”

Anzu laughed. “Well, I don’t want murder on my hands, so I’ll be back. Don’t tell Yuugi?”

Mai frowned. Through all of Duelist Kingdom, Anzu’s biggest worry had been Yuugi, so much so that Mai had been certain the girl had a hopeless crush. But almost half a year had passed. Mai had been on the other side of the world for months, and some judgments weren’t hers to make.

“Very well,” she said again.

The girl vanished around the corner, and Mai pursed her lips, considering. She made her way back to the lounge.

“Hey, Mai, I stole your seat!” Joey grinned at her from the table with Yuugi and Serenity. “You snooze, you lose.”

“Want me to grab you another one?” Tristan asked, reaching for a chair at the next table.

Mai waved him off. “No, please continue. I must take my leave and prepare to beat Joey in the semi-finals.”

Joey squawked. Serenity giggled.

“My deck’s got all kinds of new tricks,” he warned. “Better watch out.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow and clicked her tongue. “As if you think my deck has not changed. My Amazoness warriors will fillet you, mon cher.”

Joey gulped, earning a laugh from everyone at the table. Mai winked. She took a new plate. Filled it with food.

Then she headed for the hallway once more.

++++++++++

The knock at his door came completely unexpected, but Marik assumed it would be Odion, opening it without a thought—

—which left him in a very awkward position when he came face to face with Anzu Mazaki.

A moment passed in silence as they stared at each other.

Then she raised a plate of what appeared to be foreign noodles and breaded fish.

“Hungry?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it poisoned?”

“No!”

She seemed scandalized by the very thought, which made him snort. Perhaps he should have had a stronger reaction, but his mind was still trying to work out what leverage she could hope to gain by bringing him . . . dinner.

She shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He leaned on the doorframe, looking her up and down, but her blue eyes gave nothing away. Of course, he could have known her intentions instantly by looking into her mind.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

“Why would I?” he drawled.

With an expression that said he was a bit slow, she raised the plate again, gesturing at it with her other hand.

The brace around her hand and wrist didn’t escape Marik’s notice.

“Unless you want to eat standing in the doorway,” she said.

“I don’t want to eat,” he said flatly. “Hence why I declined gathering food in the lounge and instead came to my room to be undisturbed. Funny how that’s turned out.”

Anzu frowned. “I thought you just didn’t want to eat with the rest of us there.”

The answer seemed genuine.

Marik shrugged. “Why would I care who’s there and who isn’t? If the pharaoh wants to battle, I am always ready. If anyone were to try something underhanded, they would never make it past my Millennium Rod.”

She sighed. “Look, I just thought—”

“Thought what? That you could appeal to your enemy through his appetite?” He leaned forward. “I have no taste for either you or your food.”

“Okay.” She snorted and shook her head. “Okay, this was a stupid idea. Forget I came.”

She set the plate on the floor and turned away.

Marik frowned. “Tell the pharaoh—”

“The pharaoh didn’t send me, and I’m not a messenger.” She turned to glance over her shoulder at him. “I just thought maybe you would have liked some company.”

“I could see the truth in your mind if I wanted.”

“Then take a look.”

His frown deepened.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’re all trapped up here until we land, so if you change your mind, I’m sure you can find me.”

She continued down the hall and turned the corner. Her footsteps echoed for a bit even after that, and it wasn’t until they faded completely that Marik reached down and lifted the plate of food, then turned back into his room and closed the door behind himself.

++++++++++

Mai watched from around the corner as Anzu knocked on Marik’s door. She couldn’t hear the conversation well from where she stood, but she got the gist through word and body language. He didn’t appear to be threatening, so she nodded to herself, satisfied, and moved to the next hallway over. The finalists’ rooms had been divided into two sections with even numbers on one side and odd on the other. Even-numbered rooms were at the outer edge of the blimp and had windows, but the odd-numbered section was in the center of the craft, windowless. As duelist number five, Mai’s room was the center of the center, a fate she bemoaned silently.

But it was not her own room she approached. It was room number one.

She rapped her knuckles on the door and waited.

After several moments, it beeped, sliding aside to reveal a tall, well-built man in a purple cloak.

“Bonsoir, monsieur.”

His startled expression was endearing and much less gruff than she would have expected.

“I am Mai Valentine, finalist number five. And you are?”

He cleared his throat. “Odion Ishtar.”

“Enchantée, Monsieur Odion.” She held up the plate of food she’d brought with her. “You skipped dinner, no? Here, for you.”

The tattoo down the left side of his face crinkled under a frown. He bowed as he accepted the plate.

No resistance whatsoever. Mai smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, still looking a bit stunned.

Manners, too.

“My friend took a plate to your companion. I thought it only fair to do the same for you, since you followed him from the lounge without eating.”

He seemed uncertain what to say to that.

“Your companion.” She raised an eyebrow. “He seems not very friendly.”

His mouth compressed to a line; he said nothing once again. Loyal in addition to the rest.

“I hope we may all get along during these finals,” she said. “After all, the game is for fun.”

When he made no move to answer that either, she shrugged a shoulder and bid him goodbye. After he closed the door, she moved to her own room, holding her ID card up to the square reader beside the door. A green light blinked, and she pressed the “Enter” button. The door beeped and slid aside, the lights switching on automatically when she entered.

It was small, cramped. But it had a bed and a small table to sit at, which was miles ahead of Duelist Kingdom. It also had a mini fridge, and while she wished it would have held a bottle of pinot noir, the bottles of water would do.

She took a seat at the table, unpacking her deck and spare cards. Without knowing who she would face in the semi-finals, it was pointless to build a deck to counter their strategies, but after her final duel of the preliminaries, she still had two cards she wanted to change out before her next encounter.

After making the changes, she went through her whole deck again, ensuring it covered the essential strategies she wanted. It seemed hardly any time had passed at all when she heard the announcement:

_“Attention, Battle City finalists! Please gather in the lounge for the lottery to determine the first two duelists of the semi-finals.”_

Mai stood, snapped her deck into her thigh holster, and checked her Duel Disk. When all was ready, she headed to the lounge once more.


	3. The First Duel

Yori felt worlds better after a shower, and she was grateful there had been an arranged break before the semi-finals started. She’d spoken to a KaibaCorp employee before her shower, and the woman had given her a complimentary Battle City T-shirt, so at least she had a clean shirt to wear. There was nothing she could do about her underwear, bra, or jeans, which had dried stiff with ocean salt, but it was better than nothing. She could only hope the giant lettering across the front of the shirt that advertised the tournament and the KaibaCorp logo on the back would help distract from her scarred arms, which were showing more than she ever felt comfortable with.

In addition to the shirt, the staff member had given her a set of navy shorts to sleep in. If they’d been a bit longer and a bit tighter, she’d have just worn them for the tournament, but since Seto had warned her about conditions on top of the blimp, she decided to stick with her jeans, stiff and uncomfortable though they were. After she showered, changed, and dried her hair—saying hi to Anzu once when she stepped into the bathroom—she returned to her room to check on Mokuba.

Seto hadn’t stopped by. Yori restrained a frustrated sigh.

“Hang in there,” she said, knowing it would be barely any consolation.

Mokuba was curled up on the bed, hugging the solitary pillow. He gave no response.

An announcement aired overhead, calling the finalists to the lounge. Yori frowned, but Roland nodded to her from his place at the small table.

“Go on, miss. I’ll be here.”

So she exited her room once more. At the same time, two other finalists exited rooms in her hallway. One was a tall, blonde woman dressed in a mini-skirt and tube top Yori couldn’t imagine dueling in, and the other was a Ghoul.

Under the heat of her glare, the Ghoul turned to look at her, but his dark, tattooed face revealed nothing. His room was at the front of the hall, so he turned the corner and disappeared while Yori was still struggling to gain control of her breathing.

The woman came her way, introducing herself as Mai Valentine. Yori somehow managed her own name in response.

“Ah, you are the famed Madame Yori, and you have quite the fierce expression.”

“I just don’t like Ghouls.”

“Ghouls . . .” Mai’s brow furrowed. “They are the card hunters, no? I had heard rumors.”

Maybe Yori should have warned her of the things Marik was capable of, but they walked to the lounge in silence.

The first person Yori saw in the room was Yuugi, and when his face lit up at seeing her, she couldn’t help her own smile. He motioned her over, so she and Mai joined his group, which was far and away the largest in the room.

“Did you get a chance to eat?” he whispered.

“Not hungry,” Yori whispered back. It wasn’t a lie to make him feel better; she honestly felt a little queasy at just the thought of food. She was well aware that didn’t bode well for her semi-finals match atop a flying monster, but that was a problem for when she actually dueled.

She glanced around the room. Marik and his Ghoul stood together, and Ryou stood not far from them—the spirit of the ring, she corrected herself, which explained why he wasn’t standing with Yuugi’s group. Apparently Ryou had decided to allow the spirit to continue dueling for him; after what had happened with Marik, she couldn’t blame him for wanting a break.

She would have liked to talk to him, ask if he needed anything, but when the spirit noticed her gaze, he flipped her off with a sneer that made it clear conversation wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

Still . . .

She reached out gently with her mind, the Millennium Bracelet warming against her wrist.

//Hanging in there?// she asked.

//I’m fine, thanks,// Ryou said almost immediately.

That was at least comforting, so she let it go. And she felt a surge of confidence at how easy it had been to use her bracelet. She was really starting to get the hang of it.

“Can we get on with this?” Seto snapped. He made the demand before even fully entering the room.

“Of course, Mr. Kaiba,” said the employee waiting beside what Yori could only assume was the lottery machine. “We’re only awaiting one finalist.”

“They’ll hear the announcement if they get picked. Start the machine.”

Since Ishizu was the only one missing, the call was a smart one. She’d probably either decided she was too good to gather in the lounge or was too busy polishing her Millennium Necklace to care.

“Very well, sir.” The man cleared his throat and addressed the room at large. “Finalists, you have each been assigned a number from one through ten corresponding to the order in which you qualified for the finals. As soon as the two duelists for the first match have been revealed, they will proceed immediately to the dueling field. No changes to decks may be made after learning the identity of your opponent.”

“Hey, Fuguta!” Joey grinned and pointed both thumbs toward himself. “Lucky number three to duel first!”

Yori raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you already knew all of Seto’s staff, Joey.”

Joey puffed his chest out. “It’s called workshoppin’.”

“Mm, pretty sure you mean ‘networking.’”

“Nah, that’s a computer thing.”

Yori laughed, as did most of the group.

“Ready, finalists!” Fuguta stepped up to the large machine and pulled a lever. An air blower roared to life, and ping pong balls jumped around inside the large glass dome, rebounding off walls and each other. The dragon head at the center of the dome opened its mouth wide, and after several seconds, a ping pong ball fell into its gaping jaws, reappearing in the mouth of a second dragon head on the outside left of the machine.

Fuguta plucked the ball from its resting place, rotated it, and announced, “Duelist number five!”

Mai flipped her hair like a supermodel. “Ç’est magnifique!”

“And her opponent will be . . .”

On the right side of the machine, the third and final dragon head spit out a second ball. Fuguta checked it.

“Duelist number ten!”

Yori wasn’t familiar with the raven-haired teen who stepped forward. He wore a red vest over a black shirt with a diamond-patterned headband in the same colors. He also had a small tattoo extending from his left eye down his cheek, and his left ear had a dangling earring that ended in a white die.

Even if she didn’t, other people seemed to know him well.

“Mai’s gonna wipe the floor with you, Dice-boy,” Joey called out, sneering.

His sister glared at him and said, “Give it your all, Duke!”

While Joey leaned back, looking wounded, Duke smiled, brief though it was.

Yori leaned close to Yuugi. “I think I missed something.”

His cheeks colored. “There’s a little bit of history. But Duke’s a good guy.”

Which, coming from Yuugi, wasn’t actually a very helpful character assessment at all.

“Duelists, follow me to the arena! There will also be viewing platforms provided for everyone else to watch.”

Fuguta exited the room, followed immediately by Mai and Duke. Yori watched Seto closely, and when he moved to follow as well, she ducked away from Yuugi’s group to walk beside him.

“You know, there’s somewhere else you could be,” she said.

He scowled, refusing to look at her. “Only a third-rate duelist skips opportunities to study the competition. Maybe if Wheeler was dueling, it would be another story.”

“I heard dat, Rich-boy!”

Yori glanced over her shoulder only to realize the entire group had crowded into the hallway behind them. Even Marik and his Ghoul were tagging along, though at a significant distance. The only one she didn’t see was Ryou.

Joey jogged forward to pluck at Yori’s shirt sleeve. “Also, how come Yori got a cool new shirt while you’re holdin’ out on the rest of us?”

Seto’s scowl doubled.

“I got it from a maid, Joey. You just have to ask.” She moved her arm self-consciously, but he didn’t comment on her scars.

Everyone piled into the elevator, and although it was cramped, they somehow found enough room to still give Marik and his Ghoul plenty of space.

Except for Seto. He stood right in front of Marik and stared him down with a glare that could have melted steel. Marik stared right back, one hand resting on the rod in his belt. The metal siding of the elevator shaft flew by behind the glass walls. Fuguta coughed once, but no one else broke the silence, and it was a relief when the cart came to a stop and the doors slid open.

When Yori stepped out onto the roof, that relief vanished along with her breath. The wind swept directly into her face, cold and powerful. She’d almost managed to forget how raw her nose and throat were until the wind brought a harsh reminder. She barely kept herself from coughing and only because she figured it would make things worse.

Tall railings extended out from either side of the elevator to form an oval around the blimp’s top. The center of the oval raised into a dueling field with stairs on both sides and railings at the front and back, where duelists would stand.

“Joey, the lights!”

Yori turned to see Serenity rushing down one length of railing. She came to a stop and leaned forward, pointing down at the colored lights that outlined the cityscape below them before ending abruptly at the black ocean. They were pointed toward the open sea and still flying, so the lights would soon disappear into the distance behind them, but for the moment, they were beautiful.

“Just don’t fall,” Joey said, eyeing the long, black drop. The railing came halfway up Serenity’s chest, but Yori couldn’t fault him for the warning anyway.

The two duelists for the match followed Fuguta up the stairs onto the dueling platform, and everyone else spread out across the two viewing platforms on either side. Seto took the platform on the left. Since Serenity had already moved to the right, Joey, Yuugi, and the rest of their group moved onto it as well. After a moment of hesitation, Yori joined Yuugi and his group. Marik and his Ghoul moved to the left, although they stayed at the back while Seto stood at the front.

“Duelists, shake hands!” Fuguta declared, voice carrying against the wind.

Mai and Duke shook hands and cut each other’s decks. Then Mai moved to stand in the spot closest to the elevator, and Duke took the spot at the nose of the blimp, back to the wind. Fuguta stepped onto a circular area beside the left-hand stairs that extended from the platform and obviously served as the referee’s box. Yori had never before participated in a duel with an official referee, but she shouldn’t have been surprised—it was a tournament, after all.

After everyone was in place, the dueling platform emitted a low-pitched mechanical _whir_ and raised itself six or seven feet in the air, as if it hadn’t been dramatic enough to start with.

Fuguta shouted a “Duel start!” echoed by both players, and then the semi-finals were off.

++++++++++

When the first hologram appeared on the field, Serenity let out a gasp that made everyone around her chuckle. Her cheeks went pink, and she pressed her cold hands to them, but she couldn’t fight her smile. The world was brighter and bigger and newer than it had ever been, standing there next to her brother over a thousand feet in the air.

She touched the sides of her head, still adjusting to not having the bandages there. Her eyes didn’t strain at all, and though they were sore, she felt better than she had in years. She wished she could capture every moment she saw as a photograph—Joey’s wide smile, the red-and-white city lights like fairies beneath their feet, the vibrant brown and gold of Mai’s monster—and keep it forever.

“Kick his butt, Mai!” Joey shouted. Anzu and Tristan added encouragement of their own.

Serenity wanted to shout encouragement—and it certainly wasn’t that she _didn’t_ like Mai because she did. Very much.

But . . .

She glanced over at Duke on the far side of the field, gripping his cards against the wind, face grim. He’d adjusted his ponytail to keep it from whipping him in the face, and by all counts, he looked calm and collected. But he didn’t look like he was having fun. Serenity didn’t know what had happened in the past to make Joey all bristly against him, but she did know that he’d probably saved her life earlier, and he’d been a real gentleman about it.

And not a single person was cheering for him.

So when his turn came and he summoned his own monster, she took a deep breath, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted.

“Kick her butt, Duke!”

She turned so red her ears hurt while Joey gave her a look like she’d booed his favorite sports team. But when Duke smiled at her the way he had in the lounge, except longer this time, her heart flipped in her chest, and she didn’t regret it.

“Attack, Orgoth!” he ordered.

His beefy warrior charged across the field and slashed a sword through Mai’s monster, who disappeared into particle effects. Serenity winced, watching through one squinted eye, but then she cheered again.

“Serenity.” Joey heaved a sigh like she was a child who needed a lesson. “Don’t cheer for the hack.”

“He doesn’t even belong on a dueling field,” Tristan chimed in, as if he was the authority on all belong-on-a-dueling-field people. “He totally ripped off Duel Monsters to make a dice game and then pretended it was all his idea.”

Serenity frowned, but she didn’t waver. “He made his own game? That sounds pretty impressive.”

Tristan shook his head. “Not when ninety percent of it is all Pegasus’s stuff. Duke is like those people who copy someone else’s homework and then change a few words to throw off the teacher.”

“Hey.” Joey scowled. “Stop teachin’ Serenity how to cheat.”

Serenity rolled her eyes. “I’m not five, Joey. I know how to cheat.”

Joey gaped.

“I didn’t say I _do._ But everyone knows how.”

 _“Anyway.”_ Tristan laughed. “Joey’s right—he’s a hack. He’s probably only competing for the publicity it’ll give his game store.”

Serenity almost pointed out that owning a game store sounded pretty impressive, too, but she let it go and turned her attention back to the field. Mai had activated some cards Serenity didn’t really understand, and Duke activated one in return. He looked a little more relaxed. A tiny bit closer to fun.

So she would keep cheering the whole game.

“This is my first duel,” she said firmly. She looked up at Joey and waited until he hesitantly nodded. “So I get to experience it however I want, and that includes who to cheer for.”

The frown he gave her in return was stubborn and unforgiving. “Cheer for who you want, then, but Mai’s wipin’ the floor with this hack, and that’s a fact. ’Cause unlike him, she’s a true duelist.”

Tristan nodded. Serenity looked to Anzu for support, but the other girl had her arms folded and her eyes fixed on the duel. Either the match was the coolest thing she’d ever seen or she’d zoned out; either way, she wasn’t helpful. Yuugi and the red-haired girl Serenity hadn’t met yet were a little farther down the platform and also didn’t join in the conversation.

So she would have to stand alone on the court.

But that was fine. Joey might not have known it, but Serenity’s coach called her “built for competition” because even if her tennis skills weren’t the best in the school, she was calm under pressure, and her logic could appeal to her emotions even in the worst matches.

She imagined a tennis court atop the blimp instead of a dueling field, imagined trying to focus past the cold and stay calm against the wind, imagined hearing the crowd cheer for her opponent and send nothing but cold shoulders to her side of the net.

Serenity didn’t care who had more skill or who deserved to be on the field or whatever. Nobody should have to compete without a single person on their side.

“Go, Duke!” she shouted, louder than before.

His smile lasted even longer this time, and she thought he almost laughed. His bright green eyes found hers, and she smiled as widely as she could while giving him double peace signs against her cheeks. He lifted his free hand just above his Duel Disk, almost a wave. Then he drew a card, and the duel went on.

++++++++++

Anzu had barely seen the opening turn of the duel before everything around her changed. The dueling platform became a polished black stage with velvet red curtains, which she was viewing from an auditorium chair. Though she was in the front row, Mai and Duke seemed miles away, and the more she tried to focus on them, the more her head hurt.

“Less headache if you simply let things play,” said a voice.

She turned to see Marik one seat down from her, right leg crossed over his opposite knee, a bucket of popcorn in his lap. The Ghoul cape was gone, as was the rod, and the sandy-haired Egyptian looked like he was relaxing on a couch at home.

“In fact.” He pointed thoughtfully at nothing. “I generally let reality be more of a radio in my mind than a TV screen.”

Anzu glanced around at the empty theater, at the pristine seats that stretched forever and the gleaming, perfect stage. The duel had faded to barely an outline, an impression of what was happening, and with that, the rest became clear.

“Un. Be. Lievable.” She scowled. “You took control of my mind.”

“I did not.” He popped a kernel in his mouth. Made a face. “I’m in your mind, but the control is all yours. What _is_ this?”

“It’s popcorn, you savage.”

And she didn’t expect it, but that made him laugh. When he laughed, his face lit up in a way that made it obvious how unnatural it looked when stern.

“Savage,” he repeated, shaking his head. His pointed gold earrings swung back and forth with the movement. “You have no idea. Regardless, this is terrible.”

He tossed the bucket into the orchestra pit; it vanished before it hit the floor.

Anzu frowned. “If this is all in my mind, how can you even taste it?”

“Taste is in your mind as much as everything else, obviously.”

“Okay, no.” She turned in her seat, jabbed a finger in his direction. “I don’t care, and you can’t distract me from the fact that you have _no_ right to be here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who told me to come find you.”

“In the real world. As in, walk up to me and have a conversation. Like a normal person.”

“But I’m a savage.”

“You _are._ Don’t be proud of it. It’s a bad thing. Savage. Bad.”

“I’m aware of that.” He frowned. “I’ve owned who I am from the beginning. I believe my introduction was clear.”

He pointed at her hand, and although the brace was gone in her mind, she remembered it all too well.

 _“You’re_ the one,” he continued, “who sought me out.”

He did have a point there. She blushed.

“So why did you?” His pale eyes were uncomfortably piercing.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek painlessly. Debated. Thought about trying to drive a car on an ocean.

“No reason,” she finally said.

He raised both eyebrows, then tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. Anzu followed his gaze and saw a giant crack across the auditorium ceiling like the imprint of a lightning bolt.

“You can lie within your mind as easily as you can lie in the real world,” he said. “But here, the cracks will always show.”

Which really wasn’t fair.

“So this is exactly what I thought it was.” He scowled and shoved himself to his feet. “In that case, you can take—”

She squeezed her eyes closed. “I saw the light.”

“. . . Is your philosophical epiphany meant to mean something to me?”

She wished there was a way to just show him, a way to communicate in the ideas and feelings that made sense to her instead of the words that didn’t quite fit.

“Ah. This light.”

She blinked in surprise only to realize they were no longer in a theater. She hadn’t even felt the transition from sitting to standing, but she was standing next to him in an underground stone passageway, looking up at a faraway circle of light that ached of hope and sacrifice.

And there was a child who was unmistakably Marik, a boy maybe five years old, if that, who reached with both arms into the sunlight beaming down from above. Who smiled.

And Anzu felt in her heart the same thing she’d felt originally: She understood that boy.

A man came charging down the corridor. He was dressed in a simple white robe like little Marik, and though Anzu somehow knew the man was his father, there was no trace of kindness or fatherly care in his bearded face. He grabbed Marik roughly by the arm, yanked him away from the light, opened his mouth—

And then everything was back to the theater.

“So you saw something in my mind,” the grown Marik said, reaching for something invisible in his belt only to flex his fingers and lower his hand, “and you just couldn’t help the _curiosity.”_

“It wasn’t curiosity,” Anzu said.

She imagined Pegasus, and there he was at the edge of the stage, smirk on his face, empty eye glinting from behind his curtain of hair.

“With Pegasus, I hated him all through Duelist Kingdom. Really _really_ hated him, like I’d never hated anyone before.” She looked down, and he was gone. “When Yuugi beat him, I wished he would have lost more than a duel. Then someone almost killed him for his Millennium Item.”

Marik smirked. “Wish granted.”

She shook her head. “After that, we found out he’d only been doing everything he was doing because of his wife’s death. It didn’t excuse any of it, not even close, but if I’d known sooner, I wouldn’t have hated him. I just would have hated what he was doing.”

Marik’s shoulders lifted in a miniscule shrug. “I fail to see the difference.”

“Well, I feel it. And it matters to me.”

“So you think I’m Pegasus.” His eyes hardened. “Whether you see me as human or savage makes no difference. Whether you hate me or not changes nothing. And I am not of a mind to pretend anything else in order to appease your _feelings.”_

She scowled right back. “Hey, sunshine and roses, say whatever you want, but _no one_ enjoys being hated. If we were in your mind right now, there would be so many cracks in the ceiling that it would fall right on your fat, stupid head.”

He blinked at her. Then he snorted. “No one’s ever dared speak to me like that.”

And she realized he was a literal gang leader, someone who commanded obedience from thieves. She’d seen the men in cloaks at the tournament, seen the cold carelessness in their eyes. Someone had set the business model within the Ghouls; someone had started the heartlessness and sent it bleeding down the ranks.

She recognized that. She understood it.

But she also understood something else.

She raised an eyebrow. “Probably because you have no friends, genius.”

Marik shook his head, waved a hand. “One moment I’m stupid, the next I’m a genius.”

But he didn’t contradict the assessment.

“Sarcastic genius is still stupid.”

“Well, that’s stupid, so you’re stupid.” He cracked a smile, as if giving the childish comeback was entertaining.

Anzu couldn’t help smiling in return. The back-and-forth was similar to at least a hundred conversations with her brothers. “Your face is stupid.”

“How . . .” This time, he laughed. He was definitely most human when he laughed. “My face isn’t a separate entity in intelligence from the rest of my being.”

“I don’t know about that. Have you seen it?”

“That doesn’t . . .” He scratched at the gold bands around his throat. “You’re some variety of insane.”

“Your face is some variety of insane.”

“So this is how you say friends talk to each other. Just insert ‘your face’ before repeating what the last person said.”

“Actually, yes.” Laughter bubbled in her stomach. “It’s not far off.”

“Your face isn’t far off.”

The laughter spilled over, and she turned away, a hand pressed to her mouth that did nothing to hide it.

“It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Completely inane.”

But he was still smiling.

And if Anzu had doubted anything before, now she didn’t; all those people she had thought were unsavable never had been. Yuugi had just looked deeper than anyone else was willing to, and he’d seen the human behind the enemy, just as she saw it now in Marik.

“Friends _are_ ridiculous,” she said. “Because everyone needs to have fun once in a while. And the good ones tell it how it is, even if the truth is messy. They help you fix things you can’t fix alone, and they stick around even when things are rough.”

“Right.” His smile faded. “A mortal Nehmetawy.”

She frowned. “What?”

“The goddess who ‘embraces those in need,’ though I’ve certainly never seen any evidence of it. If a deity can’t manage selfless devotion, a mortal certainly can’t.”

Anzu started to speak, then stopped herself. She wanted to say it wasn’t possible that he’d never seen anyone be selfless before, that he’d never done something selfless for someone else. But she was learning to be more careful with assumptions and judgments, so after a moment of thought, she opted for a different approach.

“I’m not religious.”

He blinked as if she’d just said she didn’t breathe.

She smiled. “So you’ll have to give me a crash course. Is ‘no-mah-toy’ one of the top goddesses, or is she sort of a statue-on-a-mantle-and-call-it-good type?”

For a second, she was genuinely worried he’d had a heart attack—either that or she’d offended him, which was probably more likely. He turned away, gripping the closest seat back like he would collapse without it.

“Name-a-toy?” she offered.

He held up a hand. “Stop trying.”

She did her best to conceal her smile. “Okay.”

“First”—he took a deep breath, eyes closed in what seemed to be real, physical pain—“I’m familiar with the concept of a ‘crash course,’ and there is no such thing for this topic. Second, my father would have outright killed you for that statue-on-a-mantle blasphemy.”

Based on what she’d seen of the man, that statement seemed to be more serious than joking. It got a little harder to breathe just at the thought.

“Come on,” she urged. “Just tell me the basics of who’s who.”

“There are no _basics._ Are you—?” He stepped away, shaking his head.

“Top five Egyptian Gods? I can imagine a chalkboard if it’s easier to draw things out.”

“This isn’t a beauty pageant.”

She wasn’t sure he knew what a beauty pageant was, but she chose not to comment on it.

“Okay, okay.” Anzu heaved a sigh. “You can’t give me a crash course. I accept that. I’ll just have to live out my days in religious darkness.”

Marik rolled his eyes. It was the first time she’d seen him do so, and she found the action strangely . . . charming. It was human. Like his laugh.

After a long stretch of silence wherein he eyed her from head to foot and shook his head again, he turned away completely. Since she’d failed to connect with him on a topic he seemed to know a lot about, she was at a loss of where to go next, but while she was scrambling—

“Ra,” he said. “The great creator. Humanity was born from his tears.”

Anzu smiled. She almost made a quip, then held back.

“Got it,” she said. “What else?”

The invitation opened the flood gates. Marik laid out for her the voyages of Ra across the sky to give light to man, told her how the Eye of Ra, the sun, watched over the earth during the day and the Eye of Horus, the moon, assumed the duty at night. He told her how Osiris, the firstborn son of earth and sky, flooded the Nile to give fertility to the land of Egypt, how he was murdered by a jealous brother and resurrected by a faithful wife. He told her of Bastet, who stood as the watchful guard at every woman’s home to ward against evil spirits and disease, then took feline form to guide fearful souls in the afterlife. He spoke of Thoth, Anubis, and Nephthys, of Mut, Selket, and Neith.

Anzu forgot most of the names and confused the details, but the stories were entrancing, especially because as he spoke, Marik conjured images on the stage. She saw ancient murals and carvings that he must have studied in his life, saw aged papyrus records written in stacks of hieroglyphs, and even while she couldn’t read them herself, at the same time, she could—because he could.

“This is incredible,” she breathed.

“This is barely the surface.” He smirked. “But at least I’ve saved you from ignorance.”

“You, too.” She turned from the stage to look at him. “You’re incredible. Even if I’d studied this all my life, there’s no way I would remember it like you do.”

He looked away. “I had no choice.”

“That’s what my teachers tell me about learning biology, but that still doesn’t mean I can remember all the parts of a cell or successfully find the liver in a frog.”

His expression tightened. “Then your teachers don’t know how to motivate as well as mine.”

She swallowed. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then pushed forward. “Your dad is your teacher?”

“Head of the clan instructing the next head of clan. There is no other way.”

“ . . . What’s your dad like?”

He leaned back against the row of auditorium seats, perched on the wooden arm between two chairs. He surveyed her with a blank expression.

“I came here,” he finally said, “because just as lies are obvious within the mind, intentions are, too.”

She shifted, wondering if he was going to come up with some reason to condemn her again.

“Your intentions are honest.”

In what she considered a great show of maturity, she resisted a “told you so” response.

He smiled grimly. Shrugged. “Maybe in another version of the world, we could have been . . . friends.”

The word seemed to stick in his throat before he forced it out.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with this version of the world?”

His answer was quick and harsh: “I’m going to kill the pharaoh. If I have to drag him to Anubis by going myself, I will. If I have to cut a warpath through his friends to reach him, including _you,_ I will.”

Her stomach folded in on itself, cramped against her spine. She took a step back.

“There’s the genuine reaction”—he smiled, but it was an empty expression—“to the savage I really am. Save your friendship for someone who deserves it.”

And then he was gone.

The theater around her softened, blurred, and then sharpened into her normal vision, where she still stood on a viewing platform looking up at an in-progress duel she wasn’t following and didn’t care about.

She lowered her eyes, stared across the empty space below the raised platform to the second viewing area on the opposite side of the blimp. Marik was visible just past one of the metal pillars that held up the dueling platform, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes were on the duel, and his hand was on the rod.

_“I’m going to kill the pharaoh.”_

The wind felt colder than it had at the start of the duel, but it wasn’t the reason for her shiver.


	4. Thinking Straight

Yori tried her best to focus on the duel, but half of her attention was on breathing, and the other half kept wandering back to Haku, which, in the end, just left her frustrated and cold. Finally, she just closed her eyes and focused everything on breathing against the frigid wind.

Then something warm wrapped across her shoulders.

She blinked in surprise and turned to find Yami standing beside her. He’d draped his jacket over her shoulders, and though his face turned a bit red under her gaze, he didn’t take it back.

She didn’t bother arguing and instead slid her freezing arms into the sleeves, which were still warm from his body heat.

“No one would blame you,” he said quietly, “if you needed a break.”

There was really no point to being stubborn. The tremble in her legs wasn’t just from the cold, and if she was chosen to duel next, she’d never manage to stand through a direct attack. It would be stupid of her to make it all the way to the finals only to throw it away on a display of toughness.

//Come with me?// she asked mentally, partly to get the warmth from her bracelet and partly because she couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

His eyes widened a bit, but he nodded, so she crept behind the others on the platform—not a hard task since Joey was practically throwing himself at the dueling platform as he cheered and the others were just as focused—and made her way to the elevator. Yami entered just behind her, and as the doors slid closed, Yori couldn’t help a sigh of relief. So much for her bravado with Seto that she would be just fine under extreme conditions.

Yami opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to decide against it, and they descended in silence, Yori gripping the hand rail as her stomach tried to overturn her sense of balance.

They reached the bottom and stepped out into the hall. Since it was warm inside the blimp, Yori started to shrug Yami’s jacket off, but he raised a hand.

“Keep it.”

She nodded and tried to ignore the way her mind reminded her that Haku had never been so considerate. Not that she ever would have wanted his jacket when it housed a cobra.

With a sigh, she rubbed a hand over her face. She wanted to ask if Yami knew what it felt like to have bad memories that just wouldn’t die, but the question would have been insensitive on several levels, so she didn’t know what to say. But as she made her way back to the lounge, he kept pace with her, and if the silence bothered him, he didn’t say so.

The left side of the lounge from the entrance had a long drink bar with silver bar stools and plush red seat cushions. Yori probably should have gone for a seat at one of the tables, one with back support, but she hopped on a stool instead and caught the attention of the KaibaCorp employee serving as bartender.

“Anything hot to drink?” she asked.

“Green tea in several varieties,” he said, “as well as—”

“That’s perfect. Roasted?”

“Hojicha coming right up, ma’am. Two cups?”

Yori cast a glance at Yami, and he blinked like he’d missed everything, so she just said, “Yes, please.”

The man disappeared into the adjoining kitchen, and Yori let out another sigh. She picked at the rubber edge of the bar with her thumbnail.

Yami leaned forward, folding his elbows on the counter. “You seem conflicted.”

Although “conflicted” was putting it lightly, she nodded.

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“No.” She winced and shook her head. “It’s not you.”

“Pity.”

She glanced up in surprise, and his vibrant gaze was steady.

“If it was something I’d done,” he said, “it might be something I could fix.”

His words warmed her more than his jacket.

“It’s not you,” she repeated quietly. “But it’s someone.”

He frowned at that.

“Who?” he demanded sharply, as if he was already halfway out the door to fight for her honor.

She snorted at the thought—as if she’d ever had any honor.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she mumbled.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about _me,_ too,” he quipped back.

She smiled, then scrunched up her nose. “Don’t make me smile. I’m being depressed right now. I’m brooding.”

He chuckled, bumping her knee with his. The action spread goosebumps across her whole body, and she was glad when the waiter chose that moment to reappear, two steaming teacups held aloft on a tray. He placed one on the bar in front of each of them, and Yori wrapped both hands around the cup, her cold fingers tingling at the warmth.

Yami peered forward into the light caramel liquid, breathing in the steam.

“Never had it?” Yori almost managed another smile. “It’s sweeter than regular green tea, and I like the color better.”

Not that she ever had many opportunities to drink tea. It was a luxury, and sometimes she couldn’t even afford the necessities.

The waiter disappeared into the kitchen once more. In the silence, Yori used her fingertips to slowly spin her teacup, watching the liquid tilt gently against the pink-rimmed ceramic.

She wanted to talk to Yami.

She wanted to tell him everything.

She didn’t know how.

It was Yami who spoke first.

“The first thing I remember after Yuugi completed the puzzle”—he kept his eyes on his tea as he spoke—“was seeing his parents. He was thinking about them when he completed it, thinking about how proud they would be. Except my mind was all caught up in his, so I thought they were _my_ parents.”

Yori’s eyes widened. He glanced at her, shrugged a shoulder.

“That’s how it was at first,” he went on. “I felt all of Yuugi’s memories and thoughts like a flood, and when people saw me, they called me Yuugi, so that’s who I was. It always felt off, of course, but if I tried to find any other answer, any other identity, I found nothing.”

Yori shook her head. “That sounds horrible.”

He smiled grimly. “The horror came later—once I realized the nothing _was_ my identity. Once I had to separate myself from my parents and grandpa, from my friends at school and school itself, when I had to accept that my lifetime of memories wasn’t mine at all, tuck everything away in a separate folder titled ‘Yuugi’s,’ and live with the fact that all I had to myself was darkness.”

His words twisted Yori’s heart in a familiar way. She knew what it was like to look back at herself and see nothing, but at least she’d never had the false hope of an identity she had to surrender.

“Is that why you named yourself Yami?”

“Pegasus did that.” Yami lifted his teacup, hesitated. “His Millennium Eye could read minds, but it took time and effort, so when Yuugi and I dueled him, we switched back and forth in an attempt to keep cards and strategies secret. Whenever I appeared, he called me Yami Yuugi. The dark Yuugi. I just thought it was fitting.”

He sipped at his tea, and Yori did the same with hers. The nutty flavor spread comfort through her body as much as the warmth. She’d always thought if she had a home, she would want the kitchen to smell like roasted green tea, warm and sugary with a slight burn at the edges to say it was real.

“I think it’s fitting, too.” She set her teacup down, breathed the scent in deeply.

He looked away. “I can’t blame you after the duel with Pandora.”

She shook her head. “I love the dark.”

He blinked at her. Frowned.

“The dark was what allowed me to run away from a neglectful foster family,” she said. “When I was first living on the streets and didn’t know how to make money, night gave me a safe time to steal food. Darkness hid me from gangs and people I crossed. It saved me from beatings. It saved my life.”

A bit of heat rose in her face since she wasn’t exactly painting herself in a glamorous light. But she pushed on anyway.

“You saved me from Pandora, and if you used the dark to do it, I don’t care. I trust you—and don’t forget the first time I did that was also in the dark.”

A gentle smile crossed his face. His shoulders relaxed, and he settled forward to finish his tea.

“Thank you,” he said quietly just before he took a sip.

Yori smiled in return. Her mind raced as she finished her tea. He’d confided something personal in her, and it was the perfect time to tell him about Haku.

But every time she tried, her throat seized and her words died in the memory of gold.

Finally, she set down her empty teacup, turning away from the bar.

“This is a tournament,” she declared, “and we’ve had a severe lack of fun.”

Yami smirked. “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“Yes, I am.” She pointed at the corner of the lounge opposite the giant bingo machine, which had been arranged into a small karaoke stage. “Your vocals versus mine.”

He choked on the last of his tea, his entire face paling. She laughed.

“Come on, King of Games. Let’s see some backbone outside your home field.”

“I’ve never sung,” he said. “Ever.”

She gave him a gentle push on the shoulder, urging him to his feet. “Then this is even more perfect. We’re making memories.”

His ears flamed red, and though he followed her, his protests continued all the way to the stage.

“It’s just the two of us,” she said, turning on the machine. A list of blue genre categories appeared. “And even if you’re completely tone deaf, I won’t judge. So sing with me?”

She offered him a microphone, keeping the second for herself. After a long hesitation, he took it, wincing as he did so.

“Do you know how karaoke works?”

He nodded stiffly. “Yuugi and his friends are regulars.”

“Do you have a favorite song?”

“Not hardly.”

She laughed. “Well, if you see something familiar, shout it out.”

She scrolled through Japanese pop options, looking for something with a moderate tempo, easy lyrics, and a catchy tune. Samples of each song played as she scrolled, and just before she passed Smile Bomb by Mawatari Matsuko, Yami stopped her by mumbling something about Yuugi’s favorite anime.

“Looks like we have a winner.” Yori pressed play. “If you want, I’ll sing the verses, and you can join me on the chorus. It’s a good way to ease into karaoke.”

He nodded, knuckles white around the mic. The instrumental kicked up, jazzy and lit with spunk, and when the lyrics began scrolling, Yori hit her entrance perfectly. Her raw throat ached, and her current vocal tone wouldn’t win her any awards, but the music lifted her spirit, and that was what mattered most.

As she sang, she swayed back and forth on the small stage, purposely bumping Yami with her shoulder, her elbow, her hip, until he was no longer strangling the microphone, until he smiled and then laughed. She sang with exaggerated vowels, and she tossed in a “hey” here and there until she could see in his face that fun had won out over the intimidation.

When the chorus came, he raised his mic.

And he sang.

And Yori’s heart flipped around her ribcage like a gymnast on the uneven bars. Her voice caught in her throat, choking out the first line.

He had a beautiful tenor that danced between notes with a confidence that belied his earlier insecurity, and though he clipped the edges of some and slid into others, his tone was as clear and vibrant as his eyes—and it captured her in just the same way.

“You’re amazing,” Yori said into the mic.

He blushed, fumbled the next line, and said, “You’re attempting sabotage.”

“Never.”

The notes rolled by like a passing train, and Yori caught the start of the next line like a hitchhiker grabbing for a car, almost missing it as her heart pounded away in her chest to distract her from the beat. Yami joined her after a few words, and they finished out the chorus together.

To her surprise, he didn’t drop off at the next verse but stayed strong, so she let him carry it, adding her voice as an echo to a word here or there. When the chorus circled around again, she switched to an improv harmony, and though she did mess him up on some of the notes, when the harmony worked, their voices blended like they were made for each other. The thought made Yori blush, but it didn’t make her stop.

And for the first time since waking up in the hospital, she wasn’t thinking of Haku at all.

++++++++++

//Hey!// the spirit of the ring barked.

There was no real reason to call out, nothing he needed his host for, but the boy had been quiet ever since asking him to take over in the tag-team duel, hadn’t said a single thing about the spirit’s continued control, hadn’t given a single protest. And then when the bracelet user had barged into their shared consciousness, he’d had the audacity to say he was _fine._

After the participants of the first duel had been selected, the spirit had split from the group with a determination to seek out the lone finalist separated from the flock, the Millennium Item he could feel pulsing in isolation. Instead, with every step he took closer to the necklace, his mind took a step further away, until at last he was consumed with frustration at his vessel’s actions and came to a screeching halt in the center of an empty hallway.

//HEY!// he snapped again, since the boy had dared ignore him.

Ryou manifested in the hallway, one eyebrow raised like the brat he was.

They stood there for several seconds, the spirit glaring, the kid staring dispassionately back.

Then Ryou disappeared.

The spirit could have killed him.

He closed his eyes and followed the boy into the hallway that held both of their soul rooms just in time to see Ryou enter his and close the door behind him.

The spirit kicked the door in.

“Don’t be a coward,” he spat.

Ryou raised that eyebrow again, busy painting a life-sized figurine that didn’t exist. Gods, his subconscious was so cluttered. The large board beneath their feet was overflowing with tiny forest details, blades of grass across sweeping plains, and lightning-shaped rivers tracking down pebbled mountaintops. It was like a cartographer had vomited onto the floor and then four of his co-workers had added sympathy contributions. To top it off, the board was packed with more giant figurines than any game board had a right to hold, like five chess sets had lost their checkered homelands and been dumped together on the next closest one. The spirit had to twist and wind his way through an army to even reach the kid.

Since Ryou was still being silent, the spirit kicked the figurine he was working on. It toppled sideways, forcing Ryou to reach out to steady it. The boy gave him a look but still said nothing.

“Say it,” the spirit sneered.

Ryou took a deep breath.

The spirit waited.

The boy turned away. He dropped the paintbrush in his hand, and it dissolved into nothing before it ever touched the floor.

 _“What?”_ the spirit demanded. “You’ve never had a problem speaking to me before, so spit it out. Tell me to give your body back.”

Ryou glanced over his shoulder. “Do you feel like you should give it back?”

So his vocal chords hadn’t been paralyzed after all—not that such a thing would have stopped his soul from speaking.

The spirit smirked. “I do what I want.”

“Well then, if you so obviously don’t care about my opinions, why are you wasting effort seeking them?”

If Ryou hadn’t stepped out of reach just then, the spirit might have been tempted to take a swing at him. But it was a valid point; he didn’t care. Being here was a waste of time.

Yet he didn’t leave.

Ryou ducked around a tall, twig-man figure on the board, and just as the spirit moved to follow him, he stopped, instead squinting up at the pale caricature.

He knew the face. He remembered it from the day the man sporting it had lifted the Millennium Ring from a box at a market and the spirit had peered into his mind in search of a worthy vessel. The man himself could never be called such since he was a coward in the extreme, the sort of person who thought he could hide from even his own emotions if he simply traveled far enough or clocked enough hours on the job or took one more shot at the bar. Pathetic. But the man had never intended to keep the ring, had instead meant it as a gift for his only son, and when the spirit had seen his son within his mind, he’d smirked and allowed the ring to be carried and shipped without consequence until the day came that Ryou unpacked it, threaded it with a hemp cord, and hung it like a noose around his own neck.

“Heard from your dear old dad lately?” the spirit asked, barely realizing he spoke.

Ryou stopped cold. After a drawn silence, he said, “Are you pretending to care?”

“I’m not pretending anything. I don’t care. But you do. He’s in the bloody center-spot of your mind. You may as well throw on a spotlight; it can’t be any more obvious.”

There wasn’t another figurine within two arm lengths, while all others on the board were packed into small groups.

“No,” Ryou said quietly. “I haven’t.”

“Parents are a bitch.” The spirit shrugged. “Mine certainly were.”

He’d hated them both until the day they’d died, and then he would have traded anything to have them back, to have his mother teach him one more secret knot even if he messed it up, to have his father take him out for one more ride even if he was a hassle. Funny how things worked.

Ryou stared at him like he’d just admitted to possessing a third arm.

“What?”

“Your parents,” the boy finally said.

The spirit rolled his eyes. “What, did you think I sprouted from the ground like a weed?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anything about you. You live inside an artifact the size of my hand, and you have to use my life to get anything done.”

A compelling argument, the spirit had to admit. He snorted. “You know very well I was once alive.”

“Sure. Okay. You were alive, and you had parents. And a scar. Now I’m a regular encyclopedia.”

The spirit found he liked his host best when the boy’s attitude reared its head. Such moments erased any echo of his spineless father and left Ryou entirely his own being.

“Fine,” the spirit conceded. “Ask away.”

Ryou squinted at him, surveying him from head to foot. “Really?”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“What’s your name?”

Of course he would start there.

The spirit shook his head. “Next.”

“I thought you had nothing to hide.”

“Next.”

“How old were you when you died?”

“At least eighteen.” The spirit frowned. “Maybe twenty. It stopped mattering somewhere along the way.”

The embodiment of revenge didn’t need a birthdate just as he didn’t need a name. Such things were better left entombed.

Ryou blinked, obviously surprised to get a real answer.

Then he said, “Bloody hell, you were so young.”

So maybe the surprise wasn’t just at getting a response.

“Older than you,” the spirit shot back.

“What about siblings? Did you have any?”

Although the spirit had access to all of Ryou’s memories, they usually sat like unopened scrolls on dusty shelves. But the boy thought of his deceased family members often enough for the spirit to have gained a decent knowledge whether he sought it out or not, so he was well aware Ryou had a younger sister who’d perished in the same accident as his mother.

“None,” the spirit said. “Just me, and I was the mistake that lost my dad his inheritance and got my mum disowned.”

Ryou frowned. “That’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary. An encyclopedia only needs facts.”

“What I said was a fact.”

The spirit stared him down until he shifted uncomfortably and moved on. “What did you do for fun?”

“Gods, this is like an awkward first date. Can’t you come up with something that isn’t a cardboard getting-to-know-you question?”

“Fine.” Ryou’s eyes narrowed. “Did _you_ ever date or did you run off all the girls in Egypt by being a bloody twat?”

Unable to help it, the spirit started laughing—so much so that he had to turn away, chuckling to himself until he could get his voice under control again.

“How very presumptive of you”—he raised an eyebrow—“to assume I was Egyptian simply because of my artifact of residence.”

It was Ryou’s turn to stare him down until he raised his hands and admitted to liking one girl.

“Short lived,” the spirit added. “Didn’t even know her name.”

After all, the embodiment of revenge didn’t need love. Even if that love tasted like nectar and had a dimpled smile that could have charmed the gods themselves.

“How did that work?”

“I had more pressing matters to deal with.”

“Wish I had your problem. I’ve got time and to spare, but I only seem to like girls who don’t like me back.”

“Such as our resident bracelet user,” the spirit said knowingly. He was tempted to shudder at the thought. The woman was a downright terror.

If they’d been in the mortal world, Ryou would have blushed for sure.

“I didn’t say that.” As if the weak denial couldn’t have been more painfully obvious.

“You know she’s got eyes for the pharaoh.” Another thing that couldn’t have been more obvious.

“I know, mate.” Ryou made a pointless gesture with his hands. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not chasing. Just like I didn’t chase Miho after she told me she likes Tristan. It’s just painful, sometimes, waiting for someone to notice me that way.”

And the spirit couldn’t help wondering if Ryou had used the word ‘mate’ on purpose or if it had simply been reflex.

Either way, the spirit wasn’t about to get dragged into a long conversation about feelings or, worse, become a source of dating advice he didn’t possess. He’d played this game long enough anyway.

“You didn’t ask the most important question.”

“What’s that?”

“Actually, you didn’t ask _any_ important questions, and time’s up.”

Ryou’s expression fell, though he tried to hide it. “You have somewhere terribly pressing to be while I sit in here wishing for a telly?”

“That might have been an important question to ask, but you missed the window, mate.”

Well, that answered that question. Just a reflex.

“You’re the one who came in here to bully me into talking.” The frustration in the boy’s tone was clear.

Once again, he had a point, one the spirit couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t that silence bothered him. He’d lived in silent darkness for thousands of years. It wasn’t that he needed or wanted companionship—even while alive, he’d traveled alone, plotted alone, battled alone.

It certainly wasn’t that he enjoyed having Ryou around. While the boy wasn’t quite the fangless snake his father was, he was a soft-hearted, sentimental fool, one who raised the spirit’s hackles with each interaction.

“A lion always toys with his prey.” He smirked. “Thanks for playing, vessel. Enjoy the solitude.”

He returned to the real world, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. In his absence, the hallway had remained deserted, and the necklace had never moved from its place behind a closed door just ahead, but the spirit found he’d lost interest in hunting.

 _I’m fine,_ Ryou had told the bracelet user. No hesitation. No plea for help. The devil woman would have gone head to head with the spirit in an instant if Ryou had asked—had already proven her willingness to do so.

But he hadn’t.

Why hadn’t he?

The spirit scowled to himself and retreated to his room, where he stood at the window and watched the lights below struggling to be seen past the consuming onset of night.


	5. A Deep Breath and Then--

Battle City had changed nothing for Duke; reaching the finals was meaningless if he couldn’t even survive the first duel upon arrival.

So the critics were right. He wasn’t a champion.

“The winner of the first match in the Battle City semi-finals is Mai Valentine!” the referee bellowed. As if everyone didn’t already know.

Fighting back a sigh, Duke snapped his deck out of its holder, deactivating his Duel Disk. He kept his expression breezy, as if it didn’t matter, but his insides churned as he walked to the center of the platform, stood face to face with the woman who’d just put a permanent dent in his career, and handed her his rarest card.

“Strike Ninja,” she said, examining it approvingly. “Bonne carte.”

“Good match,” he said, though his throat was tight around the words.

“To you as well.”

The dueling platform released a hiss and lowered. Mai descended the stairs first and was mobbed by the same crowd of people who’d cheered for her all match. Kaiba and the other disinterested finalists had already disappeared into the elevator, and Duke would have wished to be with them if not for a single girl still on the viewing platform.

Serenity.

After giving Mai a quick hug, the girl retreated from the group and stood at the foot of the steps.

Waiting for him.

He made his way down the short set of stairs, coming to a stop in front of the cute brunette with soulful eyes.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win, Duke,” she said, hanging her head as if she’d been the one to lose. “I was cheering for you.”

And despite everything, he couldn’t help a smile. “I noticed.”

Her cheeks pinked.

“Thank you,” he said, throat tight for a different reason now.

She mumbled something that sounded like “no one should be on the court alone.”

Duke glanced over her shoulder at Tristan, who was seething in their general direction. Anzu and Joey were still crowded around Mai, but Duke didn’t miss Joey’s hateful glances either.

His stomach twisted.

“Anyway,” he said, tossing a hand carelessly. “Duel’s over. Time for me to get lost.”

Serenity glanced over her shoulder, noticing what he already had. But instead of pulling away, she stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“Duke, why doesn’t Joey like you?”

He swallowed. Every part of him wanted to lie—to say something that wouldn’t disappoint the girl who’d treated him like a champion.

“I have to go,” he said.

He stepped around her, skirted the group still crowded around Mai, and made his way to the elevator.

++++++++++

Joey watched through narrowed eyes as Duke retreated with his tail between his legs—as he should—until he disappeared into the elevator and was gone. Then he grinned around at the group.

“Alright, we’re headin’ back to the lounge to celebrate!” he announced.

Mai raised an elegant eyebrow. “Should you not prepare in case you duel next?”

He scoffed. “Joey Wheeler is always prepared.”

Anzu and Tristan both rolled their eyes, which wounded his spirit.

“Serenity, back me up.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” his sister said, but her smile was distracted.

He frowned, but before he could say anything else, Mai gave him a gentle push in the direction of the elevator.

“Very well, mon cher, we shall celebrate. I would offer to buy drinks, but Monsieur Kaiba has already done so.”

“I wonder if feasts like earlier are normal for Kaiba.” Tristan looked on the verge of jealous tears at the very thought.

Everyone piled into the elevator, and Mai shook her head at Tristan.

“A healthy spread, to be sure,” she said, “but that was no feast.”

“What’s a real feast like, then?” Anzu asked, chiming in for the first time. Joey was pretty sure she’d daydreamed through the whole duel, but he knew better than to call her on it unless he wanted his ear twisted.

“First, the room would be much bigger.”

Tristan frowned. “I don’t think the room affects the food.”

“You would be wrong. A feast is as much about room, music, and guests as it is about exquisite cuisine.”

“Great.” Tristan tossed his hands in the air. “So Joey’s never gonna see one his whole life.”

Joey narrowed his eyes. “If I ain’t gettin’ invited to a feast, you ain’t neither.”

The elevator dinged their arrival.

“What do you do for a living, Mai?” Serenity turned as they all piled out, walking backward in order to still address Mai. “You seem so mature and experienced.”

“Mai works on one of them fancy cruise liners,” Joey said knowingly.

Serenity nearly tripped, her eyes doubling in size.

The taller woman laughed. “I have sailed the world for six years now.”

“How does an airship compare?” Anzu smiled.

Mai raised her shoulder in a shrug. “Ça va. But a blackjack table would be nice.”

Joey covered Serenity’s ears disapprovingly. She giggled, shrugging him off.

“Teach me blackjack, Mai?”

Joey let out an equally disapproving gasp and hooked an arm around her shoulders, steering her away from the others. “You’re grounded.”

His sister smirked, a far-too-sinister expression for her innocent face. “Grounded for being a rebel?”

“Grounded for cheatin’ and gamblin’.”

She elbowed him in the side. “I told you I don’t cheat!”

“So you’re admittin’ you gamble. Grounded!” But he grinned when he said it, and so did she. After a moment’s hesitation, more seriously, he asked, “How are you doing?”

She pressed her fingertips gently around her eyes. “It feels odd. Everything I see here is new, but I keep wondering if home will look different. If my friends will. I’m so used to seeing it all blurry and shifted, it’s almost like seeing it the right way is the mistake.” Then she smiled. “But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat, hugging her close. “Me too.”

Just ahead of them, a woman in a KaibaCorp uniform turned the corner, then quickly took a step back and bowed to allow their group to pass by.

Joey came to a screeching halt.

“Hey!” He grinned and jumped forward. “Can I get one of them T-shirts?”

She straightened, meeting his eyes. After getting a real look at her, Joey blushed. She looked like she’d been cut from a beauty magazine and pasted into the black, faintly pinstriped uniform. The overhead lights pulled glowing red shimmers from her dark hair, which was twisted into a fancy bun woven with small braids, and her eyes were the kind of mint that made chocolate more delicious than it could ever be alone.

“Beg pardon, sir?” she said. She had the tiniest lisp, like she either wasn’t speaking her native language or was a bit shy around certain letters.

And that adorable lisp made Joey forget his own native language.

So they just stood there.

In awkward silence.

Until Serenity giggled. “He wants a Battle City shirt. There was a finalist earlier who had one.”

The maid smiled. “At once, sir. Would you rather follow me, or shall I have one delivered to your room?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he blurted out, instantly turning the heat in his face from low to medium-high.

If the silence before had been awkward, it was nothing compared to the empty seconds after that.

“Right this way,” the maid finally said, gesturing back the way she’d come.

Tristan grabbed his shoulder and hissed in his ear, “Now I know what happened to all the girls who supposedly mobbed you in Battle City. Did they call for taxis or just leg it?”

Joey shook him off with a scowl.

“Catch up with you guys in a minute,” he said, hurrying after the maid, who’d already started down the hall.

++++++++++

After the duel, Serenity had only stopped herself from following Duke because she didn’t want to leave Joey. But when he got distracted chasing after a souvenir, she couldn’t really be blamed for taking the open window.

She followed the others to the lounge, waiting for a chance to slip away without questions. Lucky for her, that opening came the minute they all stepped into the large room because it was vibrating with music—and it became obvious why Yuugi had been missing from the group.

“Karaoke without us!” Tristan shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the stage.

Yuugi’s voice cut off with a squeak, his face darkening to a shade of tomato. The redhead he was with grinned fiercely into her own microphone.

“Challenge me if you dare,” she said.

That was apparently all the invitation Tristan needed. Mai also seemed excited at the idea, following him to the stage.

Anzu, however, hung back.

“Somewhere else you’d rather be?” Serenity asked, hoping she wasn’t alone.

But Anzu gave a slightly high-pitched laugh and waved her off. “Of course not! Who else—where else would I be?”

She hurried to chase the others, and Serenity was once more alone on the court. Karaoke with the others would have been fun, but not if Duke was sitting alone in his room.

A sudden voice echoed overhead: _“Mai Valentine will advance to the second round of the finals. Now that the first match has been determined, there will be a twenty-minute intermission before the contestants are chosen for the second duel.”_

Twenty minutes. It wasn’t long, but it would have to do.

Serenity turned to escape from the room, but just before she did, she noticed the waiter standing at the bar, arranging bottles of flavoring syrups. And she had a better idea.

++++++++++

Joey’s palms were sweating. He didn’t know why; they just were, and the more he tried not to think about it, the sweatier they got.

“So have you worked here long?” he asked, and his voice squeaked. He winced. Rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Not here like the blimp ’cause you probably don’t just work on a blimp—I mean, that would be crazy. Unless you do. Just work on a blimp. ’Cause ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

The maid turned, blinking at him. “Sorry, did you say something?”

He shook his head fiercely, almost knocking it off his neck.

She led him to the end of the hall, where there was a room full of linens and cleaning supplies.

“It’s like a fancy hotel,” he muttered to himself.

She paused in reaching for a shelf. “Beg pardon?”

He repeated the action of nearly decapitating himself. She frowned, and he couldn’t blame her for the frustration. He was making a fool of himself. As usual. Meanwhile, she held herself like someone who knew which spoon to use at restaurants that had three spoon options, five forks, and a dozen courses.

After producing a stack of black T-shirts, she asked him for his size. He said extra-large because baggier was better—baggier meant things fit longer even if he grew or changed shapes. He didn’t have the means to replace clothes often, so . . .

Even as he had the thought, his spirit sank. He really was making a fool of himself; he was barely a one-spoon-option guy.

“Thanks,” he mumbled as she handed him the shirt.

“I look forward to your match in the semi-finals,” she said. He wondered if she meant it or if she was just being polite because she was a tournament employee. Or maybe she was looking forward to it because she hoped to see him lose.

“Thanks,” he said again, like a robot. He bowed out of the awkward mess he’d gotten himself into and rushed to the lounge, only stopping to toss the shirt into his room and close the door on his momentary insanity.

When he entered the lounge, he was greeted by Tristan belting out an emotional, off-key version of what might have originally been a Celine Dion song.

“Karaoke without me!” Joey shouted, betrayed.

His traitorous friends all shrugged at him like it couldn’t be helped.

“Anzu’s up next if you want to get in line,” Yori said as he reached the group, “and then I’m gonna blow you all away like bowling pins.”

“Wait a sec.” Joey frowned, glancing from one end of the group to the other. “Where’s my sister?”

Mai glanced around as well, standing. “She entered with us.”

“You guys lost my sister?!”

Tristan stopped singing. “No, she was right here.”

Joey whipped around in a circle, scanning the whole lounge, but Serenity was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was Dice-boy.

“If Devlin did something, I swear—” Just as he tried to storm for the door, Anzu reached out and caught his wrist.

“Don’t just assume you know what’s going on,” she huffed. “Maybe Duke isn’t as bad as you think. And Serenity doesn’t have to answer to you for everything she does anyway.”

Joey’s heart bristled like a porcupine. “So she _is_ with that—”

“No!” Anzu scowled. “She went to the bathroom. Will you stop being a control freak?”

He deflated. “I’m not a . . . You’re sure?”

“Yes. She talked to me right after we got to the lounge. Now either park it in a chair or get on the stage and relax.”

He heaved a sigh and stepped forward. “Alright, Tristan, hand over the mic.”

If he was going to make a fool of himself like usual, better to do it around the people who already accepted him.

++++++++++

Serenity took a deep breath, checked the door number again—ten—and knocked. Her fingers tingled, and not just from the cold metal tray she held.

After a few seconds, the door beeped and slid aside to reveal Duke, his green eyes wide and startled.

“Serenity.” He glanced down the hall, saw that she was alone, and seemed even more startled.

“I thought we could have drinks.” Her heart hammered into her lungs, bullying her breath. “Maybe. If you want.”

She lifted the silver tray the waiter had given her, displaying the two curvy smoothie glasses, one rim topped with a strawberry and the other with a wedge of pineapple.

“Do you like piña colada?” She smiled nervously. “Or there’s strawberry. I didn’t know. I should have asked.”

“I love piña—” He stopped himself with what seemed to be great effort. Took a breath. “Is it okay that you’re here?”

“Well, it might be a little inappropriate for me to come _into_ your room.” The attempted tease was ruined as her voice came out high-pitched, like the squeaking of a mouse. It always did that when she was embarrassed just to embarrass her further. She cleared her throat. “I thought we could sit by a viewing window. There’s a cute little table.”

Why had she called it cute? He was going to think she was so immature.

“I just meant . . . I don’t think your brother would approve.”

“I don’t care,” she said, startling herself. She swallowed. “I mean, I do, but it isn’t his decision. It’s mine.”

He shook his head, earring bouncing. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’d like to.” She lifted the tray again, which was getting quite heavy. “That’s sort of the whole point of drinks, isn’t it? And you saved me from a gang. The least you can do is let me get you a drink.”

She thought he would say no again, could see the debate in his face, and in the silence, she worried that maybe she’d overstepped things. Maybe she was being clingy and annoying rather than supportive like she wanted to be. Maybe he didn’t want anything to do with her but was too polite to tell her so.

But when he spoke, he said, “Piña colada is literally my favorite flavor, and I’d love to get to know you, too.”

Then he lifted the tray from her hands and led her to the next hallway over where there was a little—not cute—table next to a window that overlooked the fading city lights. He turned her chair, let her sit, and rotated it to face the table again as if she weighed nothing. She blushed.

Serenity had only ever been on two dates in her life. The first was a movie that she hadn’t even realized was supposed to be a date until the boy had tried to hold her hand. The second was a school dance that had gone just fine until the actual dancing part, which the boy had called “lame” and refused to participate in, leaving Serenity wondering why he’d asked her to a dance in the first place.

Duke was already better than both boys, and Serenity blushed harder at the thought.

She grabbed the strawberry smoothie, stuck the straw in her mouth, and kept her hand up to shield her red cheeks. Duke either didn’t notice or pretended not to, testing out his own smoothie. From the way his eyes lit up, it must have been good. Serenity’s was as well, but she drank too fast and got a sudden stab of brain freeze in her eyeballs that made her pull back.

“So. Hi.” Duke smiled at her. He had a thin tattoo stretching from beneath his left eye down his cheek, like the remnants of a tear trail. “My name is Duke Devlin, and I’ll be seventeen in a few short months. I’m from Los Angeles, California, which is just as crowded as it’s rumored to be. Despite having movie-star-good-looks and being right in their backyard, Hollywood has passed me up for every single movie they’ve made in my lifetime.”

Serenity giggled even as she still winced from the brain freeze.

“Shocking, I know. I have two parents and two dogs. Some days I like the dogs better, but they don’t buy me food, so let’s just keep that between us.” He paused, tapping his straw, then added, “Oh, I have my own car, an ’83 Mustang convertible, which would be a lot more impressive if we were in California and I could take you for a drive. Since we’re not, you’ll just have to take my word for it and not assume I’m lying to show off.”

“If you were going to lie to impress me, you could have said you were in all those movies,” Serenity pointed out.

Duke snapped his fingers. “Should have thought of that.”

She giggled again. “I’ve heard you own a game store.”

To her surprise, he winced. “I do.”

“It sounded like a good thing to me,” she said.

“Well, if you think it is, then I’ll take the win.”

She tilted her straw back and forth in her smoothie, wondering what she could possibly say that would be as witty and fun as his introduction.

“Nice to meet you, Duke.” She smiled. “I’m Serenity Wheeler, originally from Brooklyn, New York; then from Domino City, Japan; then from Brooklyn again; and now living in Rhode Island thanks to the ‘providence’ of my mom’s new job.”

He pointed at her with the hand holding his drink. “Caught that.”

She bit her lip as her smile grew, then went on. “I have no dogs, but if I did, I think I’d like a pit bull.”

“Because they’re misunderstood?”

“Because they’re cute.” She blushed.

He chuckled. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“I started a marine biology club at school.” Like that was anything to brag about; it certainly wasn’t as impressive as owning a business like he did. “And . . . I have a brother. You probably noticed that one already. Do you have any siblings?”

She quickly sipped at her smoothie to stop her mouth from running.

“Just me.” He leaned forward, tipping his pineapple slice back and forth on the rim of his glass. “I didn’t know Joey had a sister until today. But, I mean, we only met . . . the once.”

He obviously felt bad about whatever had happened with Joey, and though Serenity still wanted to know what it was, she didn’t want him to retreat again.

“Joey and I grew up separate,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “Me with Mom, him with . . . Dad. Once, I even told someone I was an only child on accident. It was mortifying.”

“That sounds hard.” His smile was gentle, comforting. “Especially since you two seem so close.”

“We are.” It was true even if Joey didn’t know she was on a tennis team and she didn’t know how he’d met Duke. It wasn’t about the details. “He means the world to me.”

“He’s a lucky guy,” Duke said. Then he cleared his throat, and she noticed the tips of his ears were red.

“What?” She shifted nervously.

“I have to ask . . . I’m the same age as Joey, so you . . .”

She no longer felt bad for comparing him to past dates—if he was worried about her age, his mind was obviously on a similar track, and that made her insides tingle.

“Nine months younger,” she said.

“Wow.” He blinked. “I was kind of hoping you were twins, but that’s close enough. How . . . ?”

She didn’t really know an easy way to explain it, but somehow she didn’t mind telling him the less-than-ideal truth. “Joey was the accident—our parents weren’t even married yet. And then there was all this fighting because Dad wanted to stop with just Joey, but Mom wanted a girl; she’d wanted _Joey_ to be a girl. And, um, I guess she convinced him, but then I was born really early. The doctors didn’t even think I would survive.”

“Glad you did,” Duke said quietly.

She blushed. “I was in the hospital for months, and they had to pay all these bills, so . . . Dad started gambling. They were still fighting about all of it even when I got old enough to understand and remember. I mean, if they were still together, I’m pretty sure they’d _still_ be fighting about it. Now Mom just vents to all her friends.”

Duke frowned. “About you?”

“No. Not me. Just Dad and Joey.” She sucked in a deep breath and reached for her smoothie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so serious.”

“I don’t mind.” He accidentally tipped his pineapple slice into his drink, then fished it out and set it on the edge of her glass instead. “I prefer serious conversation to surface-level. Anyone can talk on the surface.”

She liked that. “Does that mean I can ask why you like your dogs more than your parents?”

“Of course. And I was mostly joking. My parents get along with each other and with me; I’m lucky that way. There’s just this one little thing.”

“Your business?”

He blinked. “How’d you know?”

“The way you looked when I asked about it before. Do your parents not like that you own a game shop?”

Serenity had finished her smoothie, and she didn’t want to keep sipping it when it would just make annoying slurp sounds, so she bit into the pineapple slice, filling her mouth with sweet juice and an undercurrent of tang.

“The opposite. Dad’s the one who organized my business. He runs it, not me.” Duke shifted in his seat, folded his arms on the table. “He wanted to make me look like some kind of prodigy to give me a leg up in life. His dad did it for him, too, so supposedly we’re the family of geniuses.” He shook his head. “Really, we’re just the family of shrewd businessmen.”

While he sipped at his drink, Serenity pushed the bit of pineapple rind around the bottom of her glass with her straw.

“Dad pushed me to do this tournament, too,” Duke said, looking down at the table. “I was supposed to catch the spotlight, stand out as special, ‘build my brand.’ I don’t know how he thought I could do that next to Seto Kaiba—the guy who literally _can_ do it all. The tech, the championships, the business. . . . It’s like putting the moon next to the sun. You can’t even see me here.”

Serenity smiled. “I see you just fine.”

He met her eyes again, and he gave her a return smile that set her heart racing in a way she’d never felt before.

“I like you,” she blurted out, instantly turning as pink as the remnants of her smoothie.

He laughed. “I noticed.”

“I’m sorry.” Why was she apologizing? It was true, but did he think she was too eager? Did he think—

“I’m not.” He was still wearing that smile. “Did you notice I like you back?”

And hearing that, Serenity’s insides felt like everything in the airship had stopped but she was still flying.


	6. The Second Duel

What had started as a simple way for Yori to relax had quickly turned into a full-blown competition with the arrival of the rest of the gang. Although it kept to an easy range, Mai’s French song had been charming. Tristan’s rendition of _Because You Loved Me_ had been far from flawless but passionate to say the least. Joey had matched that same spirit for _We Are the Champions,_ and Anzu had been the surprise dark horse with a performance of _Suddenly, Seymour_ that would have done Broadway proud.

//Do you want a turn?// Yori asked silently, since Yuugi had appeared to watch everyone and was grinning from ear to ear.

“Next time,” he said. “I’m just waiting to see if you can out-do Anzu.”

And she was never one to back down from a challenge, so she hopped on the stage and accepted the mic.

“I guess I’d better choose something in English,” Yori said. “Since that seems to be the trend.”

“Can’t beat the natives,” Joey said, fist-bumping Tristan.

Anzu fanned herself dramatically with a hand. “Pretty sure _I_ beat the natives.”

She and Mai laughed while the boys deflated.

Yori already knew her song choice. She’d been thinking of it ever since Tristan had chosen his. She was more than just a singer; she was a stage performer, and in her short time with Purple Hearts, Jiro had already taught her plenty about what made a live performance a crowd pleaser. Adding those tips to her own opinions about what made a song a masterpiece, she was left with one option.

She clicked on _All Coming Back to Me_ by Celine Dion. It was a new release, but it was a favorite cover for Purple Hearts because it was nothing short of captivating. And although Jiro usually led on vocals, Yori was more than prepared to make the song her own and give her friends a performance they’d never forget.

A measure of teasing piano notes started, and Yori opened her mouth as if to sing, then stopped. It had the effect she wanted—her audience rumbled with laughter, thinking she’d made a nervous mistake.

In actuality, she wanted them to underestimate her.

The low chords thundered, and Yori hit the opening line perfectly, loud and commanding. The verse rolled away beneath her, and her voice rose with the music, punched with the lyrics, and softened with the mood. To call the song a roller coaster would have been an understatement—range, tone, drama, power, the song simply had it all. And so did Yori.

Then came her favorite. Jiro would have given her top marks for the way her voice crested on the “ _Baby, baby”_ before sliding like silk into the tongue-twisting couplets of the chorus.

Yami was smiling. She noticed it before she noticed any other reactions, and it was the response she most cared about. His eyes never left her for a moment.

Joey and Tristan had wide eyes above slack jaws, and Anzu looked like someone had thrown her a surprise birthday party. Mai had her eyes closed as she nodded and tapped her boot along to the music.

Even the bartender had stopped everything to watch. Yori pointed to him and winked, as she’d seen Jiro do so many times to an attentive audience member. The man chuckled.

Yori used her free hand to gesture as she sang, emphasizing power notes and resting against her stomach for tender expressions. She lost herself in the imagery of the lyrics, the slamming of the door, the moments of gold.

And she barely noticed when an overhead announcement called for the finalists to gather, barely noticed when Fuguta entered the room and stopped to listen or even when Seto did the same. She didn’t feel the ache in her throat that was surely there as she projected in both low registers and high. The music thundered and crashed behind her, and she delivered a performance with all the energy of her soul that washed everything else away in a storm.

Then, before she was ready, the storm calmed, and the final, gentle lines trailed away until the last note faded into silence.

If she could have, she’d have hit replay and done it all over again. Instead, she lowered her microphone.

In the next instant, Yami was on his feet, applauding, and his movement spurred the others out of what she could only hope was awed silence. The bartender whistled like they were at a concert, which made Yori laugh.

Seto didn’t applaud, but he blinked like he was coming back to himself, and Yori could accept that as a victory; her favorite part of music was the way it could capture someone in a moment and push everything else away.

Joey bounded onto the stage, grabbing Yori by both shoulders.

“You. Never. Said. You. Were. A. Real. Rock. Star!” he said, shaking her with each word for emphasis.

“I call cheating.” Tristan leaned sideways to be seen around Joey. “Professionals aren’t allowed in an amateur competition.”

Everyone laughed at that.

“I’m not a professional,” Yori said, but she grinned.

“It’s wonderful to see our finalists enjoying the recreational services provided,” Fuguta said, smiling. He gestured toward the bingo machine. “If we may, it’s time to select the participants of the second duel.”

Marik arrived just as he finished speaking, which went a long way toward killing the mood. He was followed by his usual lackey, and the spirit of the ring ducked into the room a few moments after. Ishizu, it seemed, had no more interest in making an appearance than she’d had for the first duel.

Duke arrived last, hand-in-hand with Serenity, and Yori saw Joey’s lighthearted expression darken to something dangerous. As the machine whirred to life, Joey took a step toward the couple. Anzu caught the back of his shirt to stop him, and they traded dagger glares. But Duke still shifted nervously, releasing Serenity’s hand.

“The first duelist in the second match will be finalist number four: Seto Kaiba!” Fuguta announced.

Seto narrowed his eyes in Marik’s direction, but when the second duelist was announced, it wasn’t Marik’s number.

It was Ryou’s.

The spirit of the ring smirked and moved to follow Fuguta.

Yori frowned. //Ryou, you’re not dueling?//

//Not for the moment,// came the response, just as readily as it had before.

//If he’s somehow forcing you to—//

//Please let me tend to my own affairs, Yori.//

His response stung, but she let it go. Apparently she was worrying too much. She’d never been one to be nosy in the past.

Which made her next decision difficult. Seto was already marching behind Fuguta, on his way to start the duel.

And she was certain he hadn’t spoken to Mokuba yet.

And she was certain Mokuba would want to see him duel.

But she was no longer certain it was her place to interfere.

“What’s wrong?” Yami asked quietly, standing at her shoulder.

Marik and the other Ghoul exited the room behind the duelists.

Yori started to speak, then hesitated, watching as Duke approached Joey and asked to speak privately.

“Yeah, no way in hell, Dice-boy,” Joey growled. “And keep your hands off my sister.”

He reached for Serenity, but she pulled back. “Talk to him, Joey.”

“Listen to her,” Anzu added.

“Don’t talk to me, liar,” Joey snapped.

Tristan didn’t speak, but he stood at Joey’s side, obviously ready to back him for whatever happened.

Yori could see the upcoming fight simmering below the surface. Joey had told her once that he had a background on the streets. She hadn’t seen it in him until that moment, watching him stand there with clenched fists, ready to lash out at the next person who crossed him.

“Joey,” said a gentle voice. Yori turned to find Yuugi standing next to her instead of Yami. The boy smiled in a way that matched his tone. “Maybe we should just support Ryou for his duel and figure the rest out later.”

To Yori’s surprise, Joey didn’t lash out. Instead, his fists uncurled, and he squared his shoulders.

“Good call, Yuug’,” he said. “I don’t want to miss seein’ Rich-boy kicked to the curb.” He stepped closer and jabbed a finger in Duke’s face. “But the answer’s no, and it ain’t changin’.”

Then he took Serenity’s hand and pulled her after him. She glanced at Duke, but while the debate was obvious in her face, she didn’t pull away from her brother this time, instead following him out into the hall. The others did the same, leaving just Duke and Yori in the lounge (although Yami appeared briefly as a spirit, waiting until Yori nodded to seem satisfied).

“Seems like the finals have not been fun for you so far,” Yori said.

Duke snorted, but there was some amusement in the gesture. He shrugged. “I dug this hole for myself.”

“It’s none of my business, but you seem like a nice guy. I hope the hole doesn’t last forever.”

“Thanks.” He flashed what could only be called a Hollywood grin. “It’s nice to hear there’s at least one neutral party here.”

“I’m not neutral. I’m taking Yuugi’s word for it.”

He blinked. “Yuugi vouched for me?”

“Is that really so surprising?” Yori smiled.

Then again, she may have given Yuugi a hard time for being kind to everyone, but that kindness made him the sort of person who could talk Joey down when no one else could. Yuugi didn’t seem to waste time worrying about whether he should intervene or not; he just cared about people and tried his best to help them, friend and enemy alike, simple as that.

“Excuse me,” Yori said, ducking out of the lounge. She jogged down the hall, but instead of heading for the elevator, she headed for her room.

++++++++++

Seto never went to see Mokuba. He contacted Roland, and Roland was still with his brother, so Seto told himself that was enough—Mokuba had protection, and no one but Yori knew he was on the blimp, so if he just stayed locked in a room far from Marik, things could still be okay. Seto just needed to focus and plow his way through the tournament. When it was all over, he could sort things out. When it was all over, he could breathe.

But for now, he strode confidently onto the dueling platform, shook hands with his worthless opponent, and cut his deck. He’d hoped to duel Marik in the semi-finals, to halt the Ghoul’s progress before he gained another inch of Seto’s territory. Dueling Ryou Bakura, who had never won a tournament or competition in his life, was a waste of Seto’s time even under the best circumstances. Bakura was nothing more than a fluke in the finals, a worker ant Seto would barely notice crushing on his way to the queen.

Understandably, Bakura did not feel the same.

“What fortune,” the albino purred as he snapped his deck into place. “A familiar face.”

“Savor that ‘fortune’ while you can,” Seto said coldly. “This match will be short.”

He took his place at the far end of the platform, back to the wind. The geek squad arranged themselves on the spectator platform to his left. Marik and his sideshow freak took the spot on the right, the same place they’d been for the previous duel. Marik would be able to witness what was coming for him.

Good.

Yori was nowhere to be seen, and Seto felt unexpectedly torn between hope that she was guarding Mokuba and disappointment that she wasn’t witnessing the duel.

Fuguta shouted for the match to begin, and Bakura drew a card.

“Since you’re certain this duel will be short-lived,” he drawled, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I go first.”

The pendant around his neck flashed gold. Seto hadn’t missed the fact that Bakura was part of the freaky Egypt club, same as everyone else who seemed determined to derail his life.

It did not foster mercy in Seto’s heart.

The faraway city lights winked out in an instant, as if someone had thrown a dark blanket over the ground below. The cold wind grew colder on Seto’s ears and gripped his chest, constricting his breath.

Bakura smiled as if he knew something, but all he said was, “I summon The Portrait’s Secret [1200/1500] in attack mode and end my turn.”

“Be careful, Kaiba,” Yuugi shouted. The eye on his puzzle gave off a fogged yellow glow in the night air. “He’s started a shadow duel!”

“I don’t need comments from the peanut gallery.” Seto drew a card to start his turn.

After barely glancing at his options, he summoned Z-Metal Tank [1500/1300] and destroyed Bakura’s monster, bringing the albino’s lifepoints down to 3700. He played a facedown card, then ended his turn.

Bakura summoned The Gross Ghost of Fled Dreams in attack mode [1300/1800] and ended his turn.

But instead of the sallow green ghost Seto expected to see, it was Yuugi, gripping a sword and shield. The Millennium Puzzle was gone from his neck, and he looked like a different person without it.

“Oh, dear.” Bakura smiled, but it was far from a pleasant expression. “It looks as though our shadow game has begun in earnest.”

“What kind of trick is this?” Seto demanded.

“You set the rules of this game,” Bakura purred. “Seems you have something on your mind, and it’s time to face the ghosts.”

“Yuugi, get off the field!”

Yuugi stared back with empty eyes, and he didn’t speak a word. Seto turned his gaze to where Yuugi had been on the viewing platform—

—only to find him still there, staring at Seto like he’d gone crazy.

Two Yuugis. The stuff of Seto’s nightmares.

Bakura cackled. “It seems no one else shares your _vision,_ Kaiba.”

Seto jerked a card from his deck, nearly bent it as he forced it into his hand.

“I summon Y-Dragon Head [1500/1600] in attack mode,” he snapped. He then ordered his new monster to attack, and the unmoving Yuugi burst into reflective shards beneath the dragon’s blast.

“Heartless,” Bakura said, though he seemed more delighted than condemning.

“Try whatever tricks you want,” Seto growled. “I’ll still win.”

Far below the blimp, the ocean was black and gaping. For a moment, there was an anchor—

Seto ordered his first monster into a direct attack, and Bakura’s lifepoints scrolled down to 2000.

“You’re halfway gone already.” Seto struggled to catch his breath, struggled more to pretend he didn’t. “I end my turn.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Bakura assured him. He then summoned Headless Knight [1450/1700] in attack mode and ended his turn.

“Ain’t you got anything stronger, Ryou?” Wheeler shouted out.

Bakura ignored his pathetic friend, but while his annoying voice still echoed over the field, the knight appeared as a copy of Wheeler, holding his own blonde head beneath one arm.

Seto’s stomach churned, and he gritted his teeth, forcing his mind to stick to the game. Bakura wanted him to attack. It wasn’t hard to figure out—he’d played three barely average monsters in attack mode with nothing to strengthen them. A duelist without a plan would have played them in defense mode or at least been rattled after they were destroyed.

The geek squad chattered like an exhibit of monkeys. Seto closed his eyes to concentrate.

Bakura wasn’t an amateur, apparently; he was a strategist. He either wanted his lifepoints down, or he wanted his monsters gone. Maybe both. He was meeting the requirements for something big.

 _Show me your best, and I’ll crush it,_ Seto thought, cold eyes opening. He ordered his tank to destroy the headless Wheeler and then direct-attacked with his dragon, dropping his opponent’s lifepoints to 450.

He ended his turn.

And Bakura’s face split in a feral grin.

“Now your destruction begins,” Bakura said.

An anchor—

“I dare you,” Seto replied.

Bakura played Dark Necrofear [2200/2800] in attack mode, which could only be summoned with three fiend-type monsters in the graveyard. He added a facedown card and ended his turn. No doubt Dark Necrofear was his rarest card, his trump. It would be strong.

But Seto would be stronger.

It was Yori who appeared in a circle of purple flames, holding a broken, hollow-faced baby doll. She stared at him unblinkingly, her face as empty as the doll’s, as still as if she wasn’t breathing. Water dripped from her hair, tracked down her face.

“I didn’t ask you to jump in after me,” Seto ground out. His eyes darted to the viewing platform, but it was those same people, still acting like he was the only thing wrong with this duel. Marik, in particular, looked smug enough to give himself a medal.

But Bakura could see it. He’d somehow altered the hologram system, somehow—

Impossible. It was Seto’s system, and even he didn’t know an alteration that would enable holograms to appear in one form to duelists and another to spectators.

Was Seto just hallucinating?

Had he lost it after the docks?

Bakura cackled. “Has my monster truly paralyzed the great Seto Kaiba?”

Seto clenched and unclenched a fist. This duel was over already; he just needed to declare it and be done. The mind games were meaningless. Bakura might be afraid to attack, but Seto would continue attacking until there was nothing left.

“I activate my facedown magic card, Raigeki, which destroys all monsters on your side of the field,” he declared, his voice as solid as iron.

Using a magic card instead of a monster was a gamble to counteract any special effects Dark Necrofear might have. Raigeki would inflict no lifepoint damage, but Seto had two monsters ready to do that as soon as the field cleared.

A bolt of energy crashed from the sky, shattering the image of Yori.

Seto’s heart clenched in his chest. Even after the monster disappeared, a puddle of water remained on the field.

“Hope you weren’t counting on that monster to save you,” Seto taunted, but his voice was not as solid now. The words _save you_ echoed uncomfortably in his mind.

“On the contrary,” Bakura purred, “I was counting on her to destroy you, and so she has.”

He touched the field slot on his Duel Disk, inserting a field spell card as it popped open.

A giant, bloodshot eye appeared in the sky above them. In a flash, a hundred more joined it, dyeing the sky a bloody red.

Wheeler shrieked, and the geek squad set to chattering again.

“Behold my Dark Sanctuary.” Bakura spread his arms wide as if to embrace the monstrosity. “Dark Necrofear’s death allows me to pull this spell from my deck and play it immediately, turning the field into my sanctuary—and your burial ground.”

“You haven’t done a single thing to bury me,” Seto shot back.

Bakura laughed, full-throated. “I haven’t had to, Kaiba. You’ve been eager to dig your own grave from the start. You’ve even filled the yard with your own ghosts. I must admit, I’m disappointed. With your background, I’d expected more of a challenge on the way to victory, but I suppose time changes people.”

Seto tried to tell himself it was just a taunt, but the calculating calm his opponent displayed told him the truth. He might as well have been a bulldozer as a person for all he’d tried to form a strategy in this duel. He’d known what his opponent wanted, seen it at every turn, and had made no attempt to turn away.

He’d wanted the duel to get bad, wanted his opponent to play every card he had.

And he still did.

Seto ordered his dragon head to attack, to wipe out the albino’s lifepoints.

“Seto,” Yuugi shouted, “you’re being reckless! He’s baiting you!”

And he knew that, too.

His monster never moved. Instead, the torso of a pale ghost erupted from its back and rushed at Seto, eyes wide and mouth agape.

It was Mokuba.

Seto threw his arms up, but it did nothing against the icy shock. His blood froze; his bones trembled.

He was on the dock, standing across the water from his brother, who didn’t look like his brother at all. Mokuba’s empty eyes, empty expression, empty voice, they all surrounded him. Scorched him.

“Someone’s having waking nightmares,” Bakura said, “and it isn’t even my birthday.”

Seto sucked a deep breath in through his nose, forced it out in a rush. The dueling platform came back, a hundred eyes staring him down in condemnation from the bloody sky. The cold night air wasn’t cold enough.

Bakura smirked. “Dark Necrofear did more than give me my sanctuary; she left behind a vengeful ghost. Each turn, the ghost will possess one of your monsters, and you’ll never know which one. So far, luck does not seem to be on your side.”

From the platform below, Seto heard Marik’s laugh, warm as a fever. “I do love a good ghost story, Odion.”

His burly slave murmured something back, and Yuugi shouted encouragement over the top of it. It was ironic that Seto’s biggest rival was the only one cheering him on, even as the rest of the geek squad tried to discourage him.

Usually Mokuba was his sole supporter.

Seto stared down at his lifepoint counter. He’d dropped to 3250. Bakura, on the other hand, had risen from 450 to 1200. So the ghost subtracted half his monster’s attack strength from his lifepoints and added the same to his opponent’s.

Normally, he would have been thrilled to see the duel get interesting. He would have been thrilled to face an opponent worth fighting, to find out that Ryou Bakura was not, after all, a fluke in the finals.

But he was not thrilled.

He ordered his tank to attack, but it was stopped cold by Bakura’s facedown trap, which limited him to one attack per turn. The eyes stared down at him from every angle, and for the first time, he realized some were encased in fanged mouths, ready to devour him whole.

He ended his turn.

Bakura explained the benefit of Dark Sanctuary: it allowed him to play spell and trap cards in monster slots, doubling his support-card limit.

“And you’re going to love how I put it to use,” he purred.

He played the spell card Ouija Board. The giant wooden board materialized above his head, decorated with skulls and bones. When Bakura added a spell counter card, the planchette moved by itself across the alphabet rows. It came to a stop on “D,” and a skeletal hand raised the letter high in the air.

“The first letter of your fate,” Bakura said. “Each turn, the board will add another, and when the five-letter message is spelled in full, you lose.”

He ended his turn, and Kaiba ordered his tank to attack.

“You have to calm down and think!” Yuugi cried.

Just as he said it, Mokuba’s ghost burst from the tank, crashing through Seto’s chest.

He was drowning in stinging water, dragged down by the weight on his ankle he couldn’t escape. Everything pressed in tight, crushing him, _killing_ him—

Seto heaved in gasping breaths. The eye-filled mouths above him laughed. So did his opponent.

“You’re handing me this win.”

Seto’s lifepoints had dropped to 2500 while Bakura’s had risen to 1950. He had no more attacks; he ended his turn.

Bakura played a spell counter. The Ouija Board added the letter “E.”

“Your move,” Bakura said smugly.

Seto forced himself to look at his cards, tried to think of a strategy. He had nothing useful—Crush Card Virus, Monster Reborn, and a few monsters that were no more powerful than what he had on the field. He could fill his monster slots, increase his chances of attacking with a non-possessed monster, but it was a weak strategy at best, especially since Bakura still had an unrevealed facedown card. If he drew his god card, things might be different, since Obelisk was unaffected by trap cards, but somehow, he wasn’t sure he could even summon it anymore.

He had been dragged through the ocean with Obelisk in his pocket, yet the card had come out of it as unscathed as if it had never seen a raindrop.

If only he could say the same for himself.

He had a pick of two monsters. 50-50 odds. A black-and-white choice.

Like life and death.

He again ordered his tank to attack.

“Your choices have improved.” Bakura activated his facedown card. “But your luck hasn’t.”

The albino’s trap was Dark Spirit of the Silent, allowing him to stop one attack and direct another. Seto’s tank rolled to a stop. He braced himself.

Mokuba’s ghost burst from the back of his dragon. Seto’s vision filled with those hollow eyes, and they were like fireballs, hurtling towards him, heralding his death—his _death_ —his—

The Ouija Board hovered across the field, graveyard hands still displaying the letters “D-E.”

Death—his fate, the board’s message: it was “Death.” He had three turns left.

What was the point of fighting so hard when everything still lead to the same destination? This duel or one down the road, it didn’t matter; eventually, he would lose.

This time saving Mokuba or one down the road. It didn’t matter.

He ended his turn.

The Ouija Board raised the letter “A.”


	7. Ghosts and Gods

Roland Isono had never intended to let his life pass him by.

“They’ll carve my name in a hall of fame,” had been his boast to a friend when they were on the high school baseball team together. But when graduation rolled around, it did so without any interest from professional scouts, and since Roland was unable to get by with his neglected academics, college fell from the option table.

He took the next opportunity that came his way—a full-time job as a club bouncer. The job was meant to be temporary, something to earn cash while he figured out a back door into NPB.

“Gonna be third baseman,” he told his co-workers, who always grunted disinterestedly. “Takes a strong arm. Quick mind. Gonna be the greatest they’ve ever seen.”

But the years passed without his permission, and he was still standing by the same door night after night, and soon enough, baseball was like a dream he’d once had that he couldn’t quite remember after waking.

“Will you work for that club forever?” his mother asked him.

“Of course not,” he said at first.

“Maybe,” he said eventually.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Then the club ran out of money, and with no smart investments or savings to his name, Roland would, too, if he didn’t find another job. He was thirty-seven years old, and sports dreams had faded into nothing. The job he took was once more the first option that came his way: hired muscle for Gozaburo Kaiba.

He’d intended to have a family, once upon a time. In high school, he’d loved a girl with all his heart, and when graduation came, she asked if he was going to marry her.

“I will,” he promised. “As soon as I’m in the big leagues. As soon as I’m set.”

Rina went to college, wrote him letters for two years. Then came the last one, where she said she was tired, said she wouldn’t have minded waiting if she still had hope. If Roland had really loved her with all his heart, he would have dropped everything and driven to her, told her everything she needed to hear in person.

But he just wrote back and said, “If that’s how you feel.”

“How can you be my son and still so stupid,” his mother said.

“We were dumb kids in high school,” he said. “I’ll find someone new after I’m third basem—”

“Ai-ya,” his mother said, tossing her dishtowel in his face.

Of course, he never made it into baseball, and by the time his heart ached for a family, his illustrious bouncer career had already trained him to be irritated at the sight of anyone. Any girl who came to the club only got a second glance from him if she was drunk senseless or hysterical, and neither condition fostered romance, only headaches. Plenty of girls flirted, but their interest was in free entrance, not in him.

He missed Rina. But Rina was married to someone else.

“I don’t know how I’m your son but still so stupid,” he told his mother.

Working as a bodyguard to Gozaburo Kaiba did him no better than the club, and the day came when Roland realized he was officially past prime. His chances at family life slid off the table just as baseball had, and it was pointless to shed tears over his fate when he’d dug all the holes himself. The good advice from his parents, who were happily married with two kids, and the example of his little brother, who was happily married with two kids, hadn’t been able to beat sense into his thick skull until it was too late.

Roland was forty-nine years old. He’d resigned himself to his fate.

It was about that time when his employer adopted two kids.

The event happened with no warning—Gozaburo visited an orphanage to boost publicity but then returned with two orphan boys in tow, Seto and Mokuba Akiyama. Roland was shocked, to say the least. Through the years, Gozaburo had made clear his disgust at and dismissal of the idea of fatherhood.

The attitude was ironic, of course, considering Gozaburo had a biological son who’d been born the year Roland started working for the man. But the boy’s mother had died of illness four years after his birth, and Gozaburo’s already-limited taste for anything gentle had died with her. His son had been given to a full-time nanny’s care, and when the boy unexpectedly died a year later, Gozaburo hardly seemed to notice. Following the cremation, the afterthought-funeral had been barely a lunch event, after which Gozaburo instructed the mansion staff to remove all photos and other “bothersome” evidence of his son’s existence from the house while he left to conduct a business meeting as usual.

He’d had no change of mind or heart in the seven years after that, yet he still adopted the two brothers and made them Kaibas. Roland would never forget the day they walked through the door of the Kaiba mansion for the first time, ten-year-old Seto with his head high and expression daring, far too mature for the baby-fat curves still in his cheeks, and little five-year-old Mokuba hiding in his brother’s shadow, clutching Seto’s shirt like a lifeline.

Despite Roland’s resignation to his place in life, he loved those two kids the instant he saw them.

“I wish I’d adopted them first,” he told his brother.

“They still need you,” Anton said. “Kaiba’s barely human.”

It was true. Whatever Gozaburo’s motivation had been for taking on the two boys, it was nothing fatherly or caring, made evident immediately by the rigorous tutoring schedule he arranged for Seto and the harsh consequences that accompanied any failure within it. Head of staff at the mansion was a gargoyle named Hobson; he was put in charge of educating the two boys. After he raised a belt to Seto for getting one answer wrong on a three hundred–question test, Roland “accidentally” broke the man’s hand in a door. Unfortunately, Hobson was undeterred in his mission; he simply avoided Roland whenever possible, and with his own job duties to manage, Roland could rarely intervene the way he wanted to.

Gozaburo was far from bothered by Hobson’s discipline measures—he inspired them. Roland lost count of the number of times he was forced to watch his employer raise a hand against Seto for minor and sometimes completely imagined infractions. But the more it happened, the more he noticed an interesting thing: It was always Seto. Hobson and Gozaburo both made plenty of threats against Mokuba, but whenever they did so, Seto would draw the attention back to himself through whatever means necessary.

He was protecting his brother. Literally taking beatings for him. Not even twelve years old, and he was the bravest person Roland had ever met.

It soon became apparent what Gozaburo’s driving adoption motivator was: He wanted an heir. He’d taken Seto in by choice because of the boy’s sharp mind and ambition. Mokuba had been part of the package, and as long as he wasn’t underfoot, Gozaburo seemed to forget he existed—helped along, of course, by Seto’s obvious intentions to keep things that way.

Gozaburo took every opportunity to push Seto to his breaking point, deprived him of sleep and loaded him with instruction on every topic imaginable for a future at KaibaCorp: business, history, economics, finance, engineering, technology, public relations. Every time Roland saw the blue-eyed boy, he had a different textbook in hand. In each subject, he was given “practical tasks” with no allowance for failure. But despite the withering requirements, Seto surged ahead at full speed. He built computers, designed weapons, created investment strategies, cleaned imagined press scandals, and although he almost never made a mistake to begin with, if he did, he never made it twice.

Roland never saw himself in Seto, not even close. They weren’t just cut from different cloth; Seto wasn’t cut from cloth at all. The boy was a force of nature, built for things Roland both couldn’t imagine and couldn’t wait to see.

“You don’t even work for Gozaburo Kaiba anymore,” Anton said, shaking his head. “You work for Seto Kaiba.”

“Damn straight,” Roland said.

That statement turned out to be a prophecy. The inevitable day came when Seto outsmarted his adoptive father and performed a hostile takeover of KaibaCorp. When he did, Roland was firmly at the fifteen-year-old’s side, and as a result, Seto promoted him from hired meat to trusted advisor. Even when others from Gozaburo’s original structure deserted or betrayed the boy, Roland never wavered. He proudly offered his young employer whatever services he could, wherever he could, and as the years again passed, he watched the boy come closer and closer to being a man. And he couldn’t deny the sense of pride he felt while watching, the kind he imagined he might have enjoyed if he’d built his own family.

But sometimes he had to remind himself that Seto had not yet made the complete journey—that although he managed an international corporation with grace and held more responsibilities at seventeen than most men did by retirement; although he had talents, abilities, and ideas far beyond his age; at heart, he was still just a boy. He had the egocentricity of any teenager, and he deserved it; he deserved every little bit of childhood that could still be granted to him after all that had been stolen.

That included fun in a gaming tournament, and it included the chance to be heckled by a kid brother and given the attention of a pretty young woman.

And it was Roland’s duty to provide Seto with whatever service he could.

Shortly after the announcement of the participants for the second duel of the semi-finals, Yori had reappeared in the room and tried to convince Mokuba to participate. Rather than growing excited when Seto’s name was announced as he normally would have, Mokuba had instead become more despondent, and he barely mumbled responses to any of Yori’s prodding. They’d been at it for ten minutes already; the duel was likely half over, especially with Seto’s track record of quick, decisive matches. But no matter how Yori tried to convince Mokuba that Seto needed him, the younger boy only retreated further into himself.

“I’m a hassle,” he muttered.

As well he should be—Roland had his own kid brother to attest to the fact. But even on Anton’s worst days, Roland wouldn’t sell him to a circus no matter how much he threatened to do so. Seto’s feelings were no different, and in fact, even stronger, as his actions under Gozaburo’s reign of terror had proven.

“I think I see”—Roland spoke up firmly, entering the conversation for the first time—“what needs to be done here.”

Yori blinked, hesitating in whatever new argument she’d been about to try. Mokuba remained curled up like a pill bug on the bed, shirt collar drawn up to his eyes, crumpled between both of his fists.

“You’re gonna take me home?” Mokuba said miserably, never moving his gaze from the floor, voice muffled as much by his tone as by his shirt.

“You remember what I taught you about bare-knuckle boxing?”

That got the boy’s attention. His forehead wrinkled under a frown.

Yori pursed her lips but remained silent, perhaps curious.

“I think it’s time you go tell your brother what’s what,” Roland continued. “Beat some sense into him if you have to.”

Mokuba released his shirt and sat up abruptly, eyes widening to the size of rice bowls. “You want me to _box_ with _Seto?”_

“I think he needs a good punch to the gut.”

Yori seemed to be fighting a smile. Mokuba seemed to be fighting a heart attack.

Roland removed his sunglasses, allowing himself to break formal character in order to stare hard at the boy. “Seto may think he knows everything, but you and I both know he can’t even microwave ramen. So _I_ think it’s time someone told him he’s not always the boss and that you have a say in things, too.”

Yori raised an eyebrow at that, squinting at him in a way that made him feel she knew exactly what he was up to. Perceptive _and_ pretty—his young employer was even luckier than first anticipated.

Mokuba seemed to be warming to the theme. “Yeah . . . I _do_ get a say in things. It’s my life, too!”

Roland used his half-folded glasses to point toward the door. “Go teach him a lesson.”

With his face set in uncharacteristically hard lines, Mokuba leapt to his feet, heading for the exit. Yori cast Roland one more sidelong glance, but then she moved to follow.

As the door slid closed behind them, Roland let out a sigh. He hooked his sunglasses in his collar and checked his watch. Now that Seto was taken care of, it was about time he followed up on tournament proceedings with the airship staff, got a feel for where he could assist.

He’d never intended to let his own life pass him by. He certainly couldn’t allow Seto to make the same mistake.

++++++++++

Mokuba charged his way to the observation deck, but once he got there, he froze.

Because the first person visible was Marik.

Seto really hadn’t disqualified him. Even after everything.

Most of Mokuba felt terrified as he stared at the sandy-haired Egyptian, stared at the hollow eye on the rod tucked through his belt, but there was a tiny flare of anger—of _fury_ —that also reared its head.

Mokuba chose the anger.

He marched forward, eyes blazing. Marik noticed him after just a few steps. His hand dropped to the rod. He smirked.

And Mokuba walked right up to him, like the maniac was nothing more than a bully on a playground, and punched him in the stomach as hard as he could.

It was a knee-jerk reaction based on Roland’s talk about boxing, which Mokuba was actually rather pitiful at, though he hated to admit it. Seto could hold his own in Aikido, but Mokuba couldn’t even punch a bag without hurting his hand, no matter how many times Roland tried to fix his form.

But Marik’s shocked face as he doubled over, his sharp grunt of pain and the way he stumbled back, was more than worth the throbbing pain stretching from Mokuba’s knuckles through his wrist.

“Stay away from me and my brother,” Mokuba snarled.

And then he kept marching, past a big bully Ghoul who looked as shocked as Marik, until he stood at the front edge of the viewing platform, the closest to Seto he could get without climbing on the dueling field (which he would if he had to).

Behind him, he heard Marik laugh. He did his best to ignore it, instead fixing his eyes on Seto.

Seto, who was getting _that_ look as he stared back. The one that always heralded, “Do what I say, Mokuba,” or “This is for your own good, Mokuba.”

As much as Mokuba hated his brother’s cold business face, he hated _that_ face even more.

And it was time Seto knew.

“You’re a jerk!” Mokuba shouted. It wasn’t strong enough. “You’re a dick! You’re a selfish _son of a_ _BITCH!”_

_“Mokuba!”_ Seto roared back, eyes wide and eyebrows down, like he was _actually_ going to lecture Mokuba about _language_ at a time like this. (Even though Mokuba’s own mind was already running in horror. He’d never sworn in front of Seto before, much less _at_ him. But even though he wanted to die from embarrassment, he didn’t back down.)

“Oh, dear,” Seto’s opponent drawled. “It seems your ghosts are becoming real.”

“You don’t get to decide everything just because you’re _older,”_ Mokuba pressed on, ignoring the albino, “or because you have _custody._ We’re brothers—that means we should be in it together. We should mean the same thing to each other. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

Seto’s shocked expression had already died away to cold dismissal.

“We can talk about this—” he started.

“Later?” Mokuba shook his head. “Right. So you can pawn me off on Roland again or have time to land the blimp and ship me back home.”

“Yori, take Mokuba back to your room.”

Mokuba stared in open-mouthed rage. Seto was actually _ignoring_ him and petitioning Yori like she was some kind of _babysitter._ Like Mokuba was three years old and throwing a spoiled temper tantrum instead of thirteen with every right to be furious.

Yori put a hand on Mokuba’s shoulder. He was ready to punch her, too, until he heard her say, “I saved you once, Seto. Not this time.”

Seto looked like he’d been slapped. Mokuba felt a wave of courage. But before he could let loose the next tirade on his mind, Yori squeezed his shoulder.

“Look at the duel,” she said quietly.

Mokuba frowned—because honestly, he didn’t care about the stupid duel—but he looked anyway.

And then he hesitated.

“You’re losing?” he asked, eyes back on Seto.

Seto stiffened but said nothing.

“Well, stop,” Mokuba said. He didn’t want to think about Seto having problems right now—this was his time to be selfish.

Seto snorted. “It’s not that simple.”

There was something in his eyes Mokuba didn’t like. It was like when they’d first come to Gozaburo’s mansion and Gozaburo had started pushing Seto day and night, working him to death. Before they’d become Kaibas, Seto had smiled often; he loved games; he knew how to have fun. After Gozaburo’s suicide, Seto rarely smiled, but he still loved games, and he knew how to make a business out of them.

But there was that time _with_ Gozaburo, the in-between time, the time when Seto didn’t seem to know if he should smile or not, didn’t seem to know what he wanted or what he was supposed to want. There were times when Mokuba would see him and he would just be Seto, familiar as anything. There were other times he walked like Gozaburo, spoke like Gozaburo.

And there were scarier times, times glimpsing him in the hall or at a window, and he didn’t look like anyone, just this wanderer out of place and going nowhere.

That in-between time was the nightmare, the transition between who Seto was at the orphanage and who he became at KaibaCorp, the time when Mokuba somehow knew if he wasn’t careful, he could lose his brother at any time—because Seto always had a look in his eyes that said he was on the edge of something, sometimes gripping, sometimes slipping.

The same way his eyes looked now.

“Why can’t it be simple?” Mokuba demanded, chest tight. “You beat every opponent, so beat this one. What’s hard about that?”

“You can sure have a go at it,” the albino said. His smile had never wavered since he last spoke. “I’ll even end my turn. So let’s see it, Kaiba. Let’s see you fight ghosts with brute force; it’s worked so well thus far.”

And Seto had that look in his eyes, stronger than ever. He didn’t even move to draw a card.

Mokuba knew exactly what the look was. But he would never name it out loud because a name would make it real, and it shouldn’t be real. Life should be nicer. It should be easier. The anchors and the docks and the kidnappings should never happen. Older brothers should never be in danger of losing fights.

They should never have to look scared.

“Fine, then!” Mokuba snapped, jabbing a finger at Seto. “Lose if you want to, be a jerk if you want to, but you won’t be rid of me. I’ll be standing right here whether you win or lose because that’s _my_ choice. And I get just as much say as you do. We’re brothers. Forever.”

His big brother stared at him for a long moment, and he didn’t say anything. Mokuba wondered if he’d try to send him away again. Maybe this time he would call Roland and—

Seto’s eyes changed.

And he drew a card.

++++++++++

The spirit of the ring was no fool. He could read the shadows like extensions of himself, and it was no challenge discerning when Kaiba lost his fear. The shadows swirled above the field in discontented circles, whined at him the unfairness of it all that they should lose their easy prey.

He ignored. The shadows served his purposes, not the other way around. And as Kaiba sacrificed his monsters to summon a god—which the spirit’s vengeful ghost couldn’t possess—the spirit had bigger concerns than howling shadows.

The spirit hated it when plans went awry, mostly because he’d be forced to invest his time in coming up with a new plan rather than executing the old one.

And he much preferred the executing.

Blue lightning split the darkness, made the shadows shriek. A hulking giant rose behind Kaiba, broad shoulders stretching Dark Sanctuary’s illusion, expanding it to accommodate the form of the god of the obelisk, the monstrosity that could crush cities in its steps.

“Long time no see,” the spirit drawled, staring into the god’s burning red eyes without fear.

In his mind, he saw Egypt. Saw the blue god beast against the storming sky, saw its giant hand coming for him. He remembered the burn in his shoulder as he dove off his horse and hit the sand, remembered the scream of his animal choking into silence, the snap of bones and burst of blood as the god crushed the horse’s body in one fist like a grape.

The spirit narrowed his eyes. “I still owe you pain for that. Good horses are hard to steal.”

The entire blimp shuddered under the return growl from the god. Perhaps they recognized one another. Or perhaps the giant was simply a dumb beast waiting to be ordered in every movement; it had certainly been that way under the pharaoh’s command.

The spirit had no monsters on the field. He’d been counting entirely on the combination of his trap card and vengeful ghost. Not that he regretted the strategy—he’d nearly finished his Ouija Board message. One more turn, and it would have been his victory. He didn’t feel much bitterness at the change in fortune. Of all people, he was most aware of life’s fickleness.

But something did surprise him. Not something he felt: something he saw.

Obelisk flickered in his vision, disappearing for a moment to be replaced by a small albino form standing barely three feet before the spirit.

“Now who’s seeing ghosts?” Kaiba said with a smirk.

Of course, the spirit recognized the irony—he himself was the real ghost, not the white-haired boy who stared at him with sad eyes.

The shadows stirred, began a low cackle.

And the spirit was no fool; he knew it was not Kaiba who now made the shadows eager.

“I trusted you,” the fake Ryou said quietly.

Kaiba’s ghosts had never spoken.

“I invited you,” the boy said.

Kaiba’s ghosts were better.

“Poor you,” the spirit said, and despite his attempt to make the statement condescending and scathing, it didn’t sound like anything. Just pointless air.

“Talking to yourself,” Kaiba drawled, “and just when I was starting to think you were one of the more competent people in my tournament.”

“Looks like Kaiba’s back to his old self,” said a brown-haired nobody.

The spirit ignored them, focused only on the young albino. Neither of them said more; there was no more to say. The spirit had never needed anyone’s permission. He was out for vengeance, not forgiveness.

So he spread his arms wide, stared down the brown-eyed innocent whose life he’d stolen, and said, “I’ll take everything you’ve got.”

While the onlookers cheered or gasped, Kaiba ordered his monster to attack. At his word, the god monster was back, swinging a massive fist toward the spirit just as he’d done thousands of years ago.

But this new encounter wasn’t real. As impressive as he looked, this Obelisk was a hologram, and rather than crushing bone, he would only crush lifepoints. The shadows would clamor for blood at the spirit’s loss, torment his soul a bit, but he had faced down the true gods in a true body, young and scared and fighting all the same. The current battle was barely an echo, a joke compared to his past.

So as the attack came on, his gaze never wavered. His heart beat in a steady, measured rhythm.

And perhaps it was the distraction of remembering the past that blinded him to his host’s movement, or perhaps he just never saw it coming because he overestimated the boy’s intelligence. But just before Obelisk’s fist connected, he felt a desperate pull at his mind, felt Ryou struggle for control.

Stupid of the kid to choose that moment. If he’d have succeeded, he’d have taken on the full attack of a god, and even a holographic one would have been enough to snap Ryou’s weak knees.

The spirit held his grip on mortality.

And Obelisk’s fist crashed down on him, bowed his stance and dizzied his mind, filled his ears with the dying screams of memory.

But he didn’t kneel.

His lifepoints emptied. The duel ended. Kaiba seemed shocked to see him standing after the attack, and they stared each other down while the referee bellowed out Kaiba’s advancement in the tournament.

Then the spirit turned and left the field. He didn’t offer his ante of Dark Necrofear; if Kaiba wanted it, let him come treasure hunting. But it wasn’t the spirit’s to give.

He stumbled a little at the thought. Scowled at himself. Although he wanted to demand an explanation from Ryou for his foolish actions, he instead pushed the boy from his mind, filled his thoughts with all the fresh, raw memories of god monsters in Egypt.

All that mattered was vengeance. It was the only reason for his existence. His loss in the tournament meant nothing because the tournament had never mattered to begin with; all that mattered was being in the location where the items had gathered. It was time to resume his own treasure hunt.

And after his defeat at Kaiba’s hands, it seemed only fitting he should start by claiming the rod.


	8. Collapsing

After winning the duel, the only thing Seto said was, “Come, Mokuba.” He didn’t even say anything to Yori or acknowledge when Yuugi congratulated his win, and although Mokuba was glad to be at Seto’s side again, he didn’t really know if things were back to normal.

Seto had a private room like the other finalists, but he instead led Mokuba to a small control room. A row of computers lined the narrow edge of the room beside the door; the only other area had a small table below a viewing window. Things were still silent between them, and Mokuba had begun to sweat a little. He realized suddenly that Seto might have wanted to move their discussion to the closest private area so he could really let Mokuba have it.

As the door closed behind them, Mokuba felt like he’d walked himself into prison. Seto unstrapped his Duel Disk, setting it beside a computer console. He was facing away from Mokuba, no indication of his mood visible.

“Um, Seto, I—” Mokuba’s coward voice couldn’t finish.

Seto looked at him, hands poised on the collar of his trench coat. When Mokuba didn’t continue, Seto shrugged the coat off, tossing it over the back of a computer chair. He moved to the small round table beneath the viewing window and took a seat in a cushioned chair. He motioned for Mokuba to take the seat across from him, but that one didn’t look nearly as comfy. It looked binding. And possibly poisonous.

Maybe Mokuba should have stayed at home after all. He’d probably embarrassed Seto by acting out in front of everyone at the tournament his brother had worked so hard to put together. What if Seto thought he was the most annoying brother ever?

While Mokuba agonized silently, Seto opened a drawer in the table, pulling out a folded, checkered board. He began setting up the wooden pieces of a travel chess set, and Mokuba suddenly felt very dumb.

Seto wasn’t going to throw him off the blimp or forbid him from ever helping at KaibaCorp again. Chess was what Seto used to relax or unwind, and he could never play it while mad. Chess meant things were normal. It meant things were okay.

Mokuba dropped into the open chair with a sigh. “Seto, I’m . . . sorry about what I said earlier.”

Seto didn’t respond to that. He just considered the board with a composed, empty face. But, then, he almost never talked when they played; chess meant he was thinking.

Mokuba had the white pieces, so he made the opening move. It didn’t take more than five quick back-and-forths before Seto threatened Mokuba with the first check. Mokuba was never the best at chess but especially not when he couldn’t focus.

“Sorry I’m not giving you much of a game,” he mumbled. He moved a castle in to guard his king, but doing so left his last knight exposed, which he realized just as Seto moved to take the piece. Mokuba’s face burned. Any amateur in a chess club could give Seto more of a challenge than he was currently offering.

It only took another two rounds before he saw his unavoidable death on the horizon. He sighed and waited for the condemnation to come.

Seto reached forward, curled his fingers over his bishop. His eyes remained on the board, and his face was still composed as he spoke, but it was not the condemnation Mokuba had expected.

“I am a dick sometimes,” he said. He slid his bishop forward but didn’t bother announcing the checkmate.

Mokuba stared in surprise. Seto leaned back in the chair, meeting his eyes for the first time in a while.

“But you ever call me a son of a bitch again,” he warned, “and I’ll kick your ass in a card game.”

Mokuba laughed. All the stress he’d been carrying drained, and he hopped his feet under himself in the chair, leaning forward to reset the board.

“One more,” he said. “This time it’s my win.”

“Not in this century, little brother.”

And come what may, Mokuba knew he had his brother back.

++++++++++

Yami could feel Yuugi’s worry radiating in his mind, just as it had throughout the duel between Kaiba and the spirit of the ring. He wished he could reassure the boy that Ryou was fine, but he wasn’t sure of that himself. He’d confided his concerns to Yori after they left the dueling platform, and she’d told him of her conversations using the bracelet. Yuugi wanted to respect his friend’s request for trust as much as Yori did, but that didn’t lessen his worry.

Yami worried as well, but his concerns were fairly pointed; the spirit of the ring had lost a shadow game, yet he’d walked from the field with barely a stagger. If he was holding the hunger of the shadows at bay by sheer willpower alone, such resistance wouldn’t last forever, and Yami worried the eventual consequences would affect Ryou as well.

“We’ll simply have to keep a wary eye out,” he said finally.

In the twenty-minute intermission before the next duel, the group separated more readily than before. Anzu headed for the restroom with complaints of a headache. Serenity pulled Joey aside for a heart-to-heart that seemed to be needed. Tristan said he wanted to talk to the staff about rooms for non-finalists, and Mai volunteered to go with him in case he needed “a big bad finalist to convince them.”

Marik and his Ghoul had disappeared before the duel had even fully concluded, seeming satisfied that Kaiba’s summoning of a god was conclusion enough in itself. And Ishizu, of course, had still not bothered to make an appearance of any kind. Seto, Mokuba, and Duke were all off on their own business as well.

Which left Yami alone with Yori—a state he had preferred almost since their first meeting.

“Only six of us left,” Yori said, pausing on their way to the lounge. “My deck’s all set, but do you need time to prepare?”

“There is one change I’d like to make.” He’d decided on it after seeing Kaiba’s god card in action.

“I should probably give you some peace and quiet, then.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but she didn’t seem fond of the idea. The corner of his lips twitched.

“Nonsense.” He tilted his head toward the hallways for finalists’ rooms. “Join me?”

“If you insist.”

She spun on a dime, taking the lead toward his room. He couldn’t help a chuckle.

He scanned his ID card at room six, and the door slid open.

“A window.” Yori gasped as if betrayed. “Mine doesn’t have a window.”

Since Yori was an odd-numbered finalist and Yami was even, their rooms were in separate hallways. It seemed he’d lucked out.

“Well, drop by whenever you like,” he said. Though his voice was casual, his heart jittered.

Her smile didn’t help the condition. “Don’t mind if I do.”

There were two seats at the round metal table, so they each took one. If the table and rotating chairs hadn’t been bolted to the floor, he’d have moved the ensemble beneath the window, since Yori was still eyeing the view fondly, even if it was mostly darkness.

But then again, she’d said she loved the dark. The thought made his heart jitter again.

Yami carefully set his deck at his elbow before spreading out the spare cards he’d brought. Of the five possible opponents left to him, two held god cards; odds were high he’d face one. Seeing Marik’s fake had given him some idea of what to expect, but witnessing Kaiba’s Obelisk had rounded out the expectation. Obelisk had 4000 base attack points, to say nothing of any special abilities. One hit, and it would demolish a full-strength opponent. Yami needed to improve his defense without sacrificing the power he would need to take down a high-level monster.

He sifted through his deck until he found Chain Destruction and Card of Sanctity. After setting the two cards aside, he replaced them with a Card Destruction and Disgraceful Charity combination. If he got lucky, he could force his opponent to discard their god before it could even be summoned, especially since gods required three sacrifices.

“You know, this gives me a real advantage,” Yori said, watching him work, “seeing the details of your deck like this.”

Yami raised an eyebrow in challenge. “If you’re so confident, duel me now.”

“I don’t know if you’re ready for another loss after I dominated our karaoke duel.”

He couldn’t help a chuckle. She’d done just that, but he didn’t mind one bit. If given the chance, he could listen to her voice all day.

After debating a second change and deciding against it, he packed his deck into his belt once more.

“Someday, I hope . . .” She hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s probably dumb to pursue music as a career. It’s like asking to be broke and living on the streets for the rest of my life.”

“Ah, yes,” Yami said seriously. “I hear all famous singers are quite torn up about their penniless street lives.”

Yori’s eyebrows rose slowly, and it was a long silence before she replied. “Was that sarcasm, Your Majesty? I think that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you use sarcasm.”

“Just because I usually refrain from poor communication choices doesn’t mean I’m not a keen observer.”

She kicked his foot under the table, and he smiled. There was something so natural about being with her.

“What I mean is a career in music seems perfectly realistic for someone with the proper skills, which you possess.”

“What about you?” She folded her arms on the table, leaned forward. “What’s your ideal career?”

His good humor fled at the innocent question. Normal people had futures to look forward to, careers to think of. What did he have?

“I can’t say I possess one,” he finally said.

“Then start.” Her dark eyes were piercing. “This isn’t setting anything in stone; it’s just a ‘what if.’ If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”

Yami had never permitted himself to imagine a future even as far ahead as Christmas. Trying to think of an adult career and everything one entailed made his skull ache. He wasn’t even living his own life, much less . . .

“You’re forehead wrinkling again.” Yori rubbed the space between her eyebrows. “Don’t think so hard. How about a train conductor?”

Yami snorted. “Exactly what about me makes you think I’m qualified to—”

“Opening your own amusement park?”

“That would be Kaiba. He’s one door down.”

“Airplane pilot?”

“Similar problems to the train.” The back-and-forth somehow eased the ache, and despite himself, his mind began to tease at the possibilities.

“Architect?” Her face lit up. “You could build modern-day pyramids!”

He kicked her shoe, as she’d done to his. Her laughter was delightful.

“I like the theater,” he said, surprising himself.

“Really?” Yori leaned closer. “Tell me.”

He’d opened the door himself, so there was nothing to do but explore.

After a reluctant deep breath, he said, “Anzu performs regularly in plays, sometimes with one of her dance troupes and sometimes alone. I . . . enjoy them. Musicals or regular, I think the performances are captivating, and I enjoy the feeling that everyone in the theater knows the lie but chooses to buy into it anyway. There’s an . . . energy.”

It reminded him of dueling, honestly, and he couldn’t quite explain why. The stories were always over the top and ludicrous, like Duel Monsters, but they managed to be powerful just the same. Something like that. His face grew hot just thinking about it. In the end, it was pointless.

But Yori smiled at him in a way that made the confession worth it.

“I have this secret dream to write a musical,” she said. “But I’ve never even been to one live. Or a stage play of any kind. Maybe after the tournament, we could go together.”

It was a much safer plan for the future than a full career. He nodded his agreement.

But something terrible had awoken inside him, something that looked years into the future with greed, something that said life as a ghost in an artifact wasn’t nearly enough. Something that wanted work, school, friends, family—all the things he’d once surrendered to Yuugi’s identity that remained as hollows in his own.

Something that smiled back at Yori and wondered if her vision of the future included room for him.

++++++++++

Anzu hid in the girls’ bathroom until she felt like she’d given everyone plenty of time to get wherever they were going. Then she tiptoed her way to Marik’s room.

She was insane. She knew it.

But she knocked anyway.

When Marik opened up, he didn’t seem nearly as surprised as last time. “You again.”

Anzu didn’t give him a chance to turn her away. She ducked under his arm, entering his room like she owned it, already speaking.

“A world where Ra and Nut had four kids instead of five. Set would be the one missing because he’s a jerk, and that way, he would never have murdered Osiris, and Iris would never have had to resurrect him, so he wouldn’t have left the mortal realm to rule the dead. Not to mention they would have been able to raise Horus properly. Everything would be completely different.”

Marik blinked. He looked at her, then looked at the empty doorway.

“Where to begin,” he finally said.

He turned to face her, and to her relief, he never reached for the rod resting in its usual place through his belt.

To her not-relief, he also never closed the door.

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

“That’s the world,” she said firmly. “The one where we could be friends because you wouldn’t kill the pharaoh.”

“I see some holes in your theory.”

She couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. Maybe it was her wishful thinking, but he’d seemed much easier to read when they were in her mind.

“First, Geb and Nut had five children. Ra was never involved.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. “Well, there were a lot of names in the crash course.”

“It’s also ‘Isis,’ not ‘Iris.’”

“My defense stands.”

“And perhaps most importantly, without Set, there would have been no one to save Ra from the great serpent Apophis. Apophis would have prevented the rising of the sun, the world would have fallen into perpetual darkness, and all would have ceased to be. So I suppose you’re right; I would not have killed the pharaoh in such a world because neither he nor I would have ever existed.”

Anzu stuck her lip out in a slight pout. “Okay, that last one seems a little melodramatic.”

She thought he almost smiled. Maybe.

“There is, of course, a simpler solution”—his pale eyes were suddenly intense—“if you truly wish for a relationship with me.”

His wording sent a little shiver through her spine, but she said, “What’s that?”

“Abandon the pharaoh.”

She swallowed. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” He stepped closer. “I’ve seen your mind. You know he’s stolen your best friend’s life. You resent him.”

Her cheeks burned with anger this time.

“Don’t pretend you know me just because you’ve seen one photo album,” she shot back. “I don’t hate Yami. I just hate that he and Yuugi are stuck in a terrible situation.”

Marik’s expression hardened into dangerous lines. His hand reached up to grip the rod. “Then we have nothing more to discuss. Get out.”

Her rebellious streak almost said, “Make me,” but she recognized the stupidity just before she spoke. He really could force her out if he wanted.

He also could have forced her to walk off a rooftop or stab herself in a way that couldn’t be fixed by a few stitches. It wasn’t the most encouraging defense, but it was something. She clenched her jaw, forced herself to count to three and think of what Yuugi would do to break through to a stubborn enemy.

“Help me understand,” she said quietly, “why you hate him.”

He smirked. It was a cold, unfriendly expression.

“You made a wish with Pegasus that you later regretted,” he said. The rod began to glow beneath his hand, and a faint eye appeared between his parted bangs. “Wish granted.”

Part of Anzu wanted to take it back, but she clamped her mouth shut and waited. Her stomach rose as the floor dropped, and everything swirled into orange. Before she could even catch her bearings in the sand and sun, it was gone as well, darkening into stone passageways lit only by scattered torches.

“Behold, your crash course,” Marik said, standing beside her.

As he said it, the information came flooding in, overwhelming Anzu’s mind. Facts came and went like leaves carried on a swift river, and she was lucky to gather half. She saw Marik at all ages of childhood, learning to read, learning to write, kept in strict line by the hand of his father, a man who never softened with the years. She saw an older boy, Odion. A servant. No, a brother, just not by blood—one who stood at Marik’s side even in the current tournament. She saw Marik’s sister, who recited the names of gods and goddesses with absolute precision, who prayed with sincerity even when not required. Anzu had seen that sister in real life: Ishizu.

There were other people in the underground village, other members of the clan. They were allowed above ground to buy and sell, to provide for the others. They were not the pure lineage. Marik was never allowed above ground; all he had was that circle of sunlight he would sneak away to more and more often as the years passed. The days were dark and barely noteworthy. The passage of time felt disjointed, marked by holidays that celebrated religion and deities but not the people living in the underground passageways. Marik’s birthday was counted by marks on a wall but never a celebration. A celebration would have been selfish, indulgent, crass. He was meant to be devoted, above such things. He was the heir to the pure line.

There was only one birthday that mattered, the reason for recording all the others counting to it.

“The tombkeeper’s initiation,” Marik said. The flood of information halted, paused like a movie on a still image of an eleven-year-old Marik counting the fourteen days remaining to his twelfth birthday.

Anzu frowned, slightly dizzy from all the images. “What was it for?”

“I’ll show you.”

In an instant, Marik’s shirt disappeared, exposing his bare chest. Anzu was certain she was blushing, even mentally. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were dark and his expression darker as he turned to show her his back.

And whatever color had been in Anzu’s face drained. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

From his neck to his waist, he looked like one of the stone tablets he’d projected in her mind when talking about Egyptian gods. A winged sun disk stretched from one shoulder point to the other while the rest of his back was covered in stacks of hieroglyphs and the images of three gods, everything centered around the symbol of an ankh.

Although black ink traced every line, it was no standard tattoo; it was a collection of scars. Every symbol had been carved directly into his skin.

“Who did this?” Anzu whispered, barely stopping herself from reaching out to touch the scars.

Marik turned to face her, rolling his shoulders as if to ward off an ache. “Technically speaking, my father, but the same was done to him on his twelfth birthday. Such is the sacred tradition of the tombkeepers, one of the many services required of us by the nameless pharaoh.”

She could see it in her mind: his father’s exposed back as he crouched before Marik and told the boy to copy the sacred writings stroke for stroke, to commit them perfectly to memory.

Anzu bit her lip. Yami would never . . .

But she didn’t know who he’d been as a pharaoh. Even he didn’t know—Yuugi had told her as much.

“What does it say?” Unlike other hieroglyphs she’d seen while sharing a mind with Marik, she’d been unable to read the writing on his back.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said shortly. “It’s for the pharaoh, sacred information passed down through the generations until his return, when the head of clan is honor-bound to present it to him, along with the two Millennium Items under our protection.”

“That tradition isn’t the only reason you hate the pharaoh.” Anzu could see it in his eyes, feel it in everything around her.

Her words startled everything into motion again. She saw the ceremonial chamber lit by a flood of candles, saw the aftermath of the tombkeeper’s initiation—the discarded knives, the blood smeared across all edges of the stone altar, the pile of wet linen rags turned nearly crimson with the same.

And as much as seeing Marik’s scars had hurt her soul, it was nothing compared to what she felt when she saw him as a twelve-year-old boy leaning heavily on the altar, his back bandaged, but the bandages already stained through; his beautiful blond hair matted red above his neck; his once-white trousers soaked at the waist.

But Marik wasn’t thinking about his own condition.

His father was slumped against a blood-streaked wall, his own clothes more soaked than Marik’s, torn around the repeated stab wounds that had ended his life, his eyes glassy and staring.

Anzu covered her mouth with both hands. Tears leaked from her eyes as they would have in the real world, but her vision didn’t blur.

The images passed quickly again. Marik sobbed over his father’s body; he was pulled away by Odion and taken above ground for the first time in his life. The sun was unkind. He lived in a haze of pain as his back crawled its way toward healing but his mind never did. Odion carved the side of his face with hieroglyphs in the same style as Marik’s back, wore it as a sign of devotion and shared suffering, and though Marik never said anything, that day was the first he felt like he might be able to move forward.

But not without avenging his father. No one had seen what had happened, no one knew who’d wielded the knife. Marik had been unconscious after the initiation ceremony. Whoever had killed his father had walked directly by him and left just the same; the thought ate at him daily, his failure consuming him from the inside. He prayed for guidance with a sincerity he’d never before felt, searched records and prophecies for any hint.

And in the end, he found the prophecy that called for the destruction of the Ishtars, the prophecy that declared in bold language that with the pharaoh’s return in the last days, the tombkeepers had served their purpose and would be destroyed one by one until the lineage was dead.

All according to the will of the pharaoh.

And Marik no longer cared who’d wielded the knife. The hand had been just that—an instrument, a servant. He’d found the will behind everything. He’d found the pharaoh’s payment for a hundred generations of faithful service.

So he made his vow.

The colors melted, faded. Anzu floated and fell until she touched reality. As soon as her stomach landed, she felt it heave back up again, and she barely made it to the trash can by the bed before losing her dinner.

Her response must have startled Marik because he knelt beside her and hesitantly poked her back with his fingertips.

“You asked for it,” he said rather sullenly. Then, after a pause, “Are you alright?”

“No,” Anzu whispered. Tears tracked down her face in the real world with all the burn she hadn’t felt in his mind, and her throat burned just the same. She felt dizzy, and she wasn’t sure if it was from what she’d seen, from being tugged around by the rod, or from the feeling that everything she knew about life had suddenly tilted.

Marik moved away, and Anzu tried to stand, but her mind refused to gather itself. It simply kept playing everything she’d seen. She wiped at her face, woodenly clearing the tears.

“Here,” Marik said roughly, offering her a hand.

Unable to look at him, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet, then backed her against the bed, forcing her to sit.

“Here,” he said again. He extended a water bottle.

The plastic was cold against her fingers.

The silence was cold as well.

“Odion always gave me water when I was sick,” Marik said, hands on his hips. “Is that not the normal response?”

Anzu’s father had bought her a big stuffed unicorn for her fifth birthday. She’d slept with it every night for years, and when one of its plastic eyes came off, her older brother calmed her tears by tying a bandana around its head and calling it a fierce pirate unicorn.

Marik’s father had taken note of Marik’s fifth birthday and moved forward without a single word. His older brother had been beaten for Marik’s mistakes, trained to call him “Master” and serve him as the future head of clan. There had been no room for love in those dark tunnels. Only tradition. Only duty.

It was a wonder Marik could feel anything at all.

“How did you stand it?” Anzu whispered. The plastic bottle crackled as she gripped it until her fingers hurt.

“Stand what?”

“Living like that.”

He didn’t answer.

Anzu finally twisted the lid off the water—a tricky thing with one hand still in a brace. She had to grip the bottle with her elbow and uncap it with her good hand. She took a drink. Unfortunately, the bad taste in her mind refused to be washed away as easily as the one in her mouth.

“I didn’t—”

Marik’s hesitant voice cut off abruptly as a new figure stepped into the doorway. He grabbed the rod, brandishing it like a sword at the intruder.

“Well, well, well,” the newcomer drawled, leaning on the doorframe. “I’d hoped for a moment alone, but it seems you’re more popular than anticipated.”

Anzu frowned. “Ryou?”

The albino had dark shadows around his eyes, like he’d never slept in his life, and his skin was paler than she’d ever seen it. He looked ready to collapse, but he smirked like nothing was wrong.

“I’m here to claim your rod,” Ryou sneered, never taking his eyes from Marik.

“You just lost a shadow game against a god card, and you’re still walking?” Marik’s expression hardened. “You _are_ a monster.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Anzu stood, stepping around Marik. “Ryou, are you okay?”

He obviously wasn’t feeling himself, at the very least. And it worried her that the last time she’d seen him act hard like this had been in Duelist Kingdom. Yuugi said he’d been possessed by the ring.

Even as she had the thought, the ring began to glow, casting yellow shadows across his striped T-shirt.

Marik grabbed Anzu’s wrist, pulling her back just as a wave of force erupted from the ring. The pressure forced the air from her lungs, but Marik took the brunt of it, shielding her.

“I’ve barely opened my bag of tricks,” Ryou panted as the force receded.

“You’re barely standing,” Marik shot back.

“Then let’s see you knock me down, _tombkeeper.”_

Just as Anzu was considering thanking Marik, he shoved her onto the bed behind him, stepping forward to meet Ryou. The room filled with brilliant gold light, blinding her.

She didn’t know what the fight was about, and anything with the Millennium Items still turned her stomach, but she wasn’t about to just stand back and watch. She rolled to her feet again, squinting against the light, and rushed forward. She could barely make out the two shapes grappling, and she could only hope Ryou would still be the one closest to the door.

With that hope, she grabbed his elbow as he twisted into reach, trying to pull him away. His skin was hot to the touch—not hot like a fever but hot like the metal handle of a pan on a burner. He didn’t budge, and her fingers burned too much to hold on.

But with two brothers and Joey and Tristan as friends, Anzu wasn’t inexperienced at breaking up a stupid wrestling match, even if this one had stupid supernatural elements.

She uncapped her water bottle again and dumped the whole thing on Ryou’s head.

Steam hissed in the air. The blinding light vanished, and Ryou stumbled back enough for Marik to overpower him, knocking him to the floor. Anzu kicked Marik in the hip, making him hiss with pain and pull back, though he still kept a grip on his stupid rod.

“Stop it, both of you,” she commanded, “or I will throw you off this blimp.”

The order wasn’t much use on Ryou—he’d passed out. He looked like a drowned puppy, hair and shirt soaked in water, pale and unconscious. At least he was breathing.

“You kicked me,” Marik snarled, glaring up at her. His fingers were still tight on the rod, and the hollow eye was hazy with the threat of a glow. “After I protected you.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “I’m protecting you too, idiot.”

Marik grumbled something unintelligible as he climbed to his feet, but his grip slackened, and he slid the rod through his belt once more.

“Take your _friend_ and go,” he said, kicking Ryou in the leg as he crossed the room.

“How am I supposed to do that, genius? I can’t carry him.”

“I’d also appreciate it if you’d make up your mind about the state of my intelligence.”

Anzu didn’t comment. She’d already moved to the door, where there was a little intercom clearly marked “staff service.” She pressed the button, and it buzzed faintly.

“Staff service. How may we assist?”

“Do you have a doctor?” Anzu glanced back at Ryou, her heart twisting. “My friend passed out. I’m in finalist room number two.”

“We’ll have medical staff sent to you right away, ma’am.”

“Absolutely not.” Marik slammed the mini fridge door closed, fresh water bottle in hand. He pointed at Ryou. “Take him somewhere else.”

Anzu ignored him and knelt by Ryou, propping his head up in her lap. Creases marked his forehead, and his breathing was labored, like he was in the middle of a nightmare. He’d told her once that he sometimes had nightmares about the car accident that had killed his mother and sister. The stress from dueling all day had probably caught up with him, or maybe he’d been sick even before the tournament started but had refused to admit it. Ryou was stubborn about things like that, and he kept too much to himself.

“Hey,” Marik said, but Anzu still ignored him.

He crossed the room to her. She scowled up at him. “I know he attacked you, and I’m sorry—although, let’s be honest, it’s no surprise people want to attack you with the way you act—but try to be a little considerate.”

“Try to . . .” Marik expelled his breath in a rush, nearly laughing. “Has no one ever told you how strange you are?”

“Please.” Anzu rolled her eyes. “I’m the most normal of everyone on this blimp.”

“And so humble.”

“I never said that.”

Two staff members came rushing in. They quickly checked Ryou’s breathing and asked Anzu a few questions about what had happened, then strapped him onto an orange stretcher board they could carry between them.

“We have a medical bay near the control rooms with more equipment,” one of the men explained. “It seems likely he collapsed of exhaustion, so he may just need rest and fluids, but we’ll make sure.”

“I’ll come,” Anzu said, already moving.

She hesitated, glancing back at Marik, but the Egyptian turned away pointedly. She didn’t know what to say with the medical staff present, and there were so many things she wanted to talk about—not just Ryou’s random, unexplained attack, but Marik’s past. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

But the men carried Ryou into the hall, and she followed.

And Marik never said a word.


	9. A Deep Breath Again

//Open the door,// Marik commanded.

It took less than ten seconds for Odion to obey, and the door to finalist room number one slid open. Marik brushed past him, then stopped in his tracks.

“No window?” The room was too much like home: confining.

“Apologies, Master Marik.” Odion bowed as the door slid closed. As if he was in any way responsible for the placement of windows.

Marik sighed and waved him off. He rotated a chair at the table and sat slouched, tilting the water bottle in his hand back and forth, watching the single air bubble slide from one end to the other.

“Someone,” he said, by way of explanation for his presence, “threw up in my room. It’s being cleaned.”

Both of Odion’s eyebrows rose at that, but he didn’t ask, and Marik didn’t offer.

After a few seconds of silence, the older man seated himself on the floor in a meditation pose, closing his eyes. Seeing Odion grow calmer only made Marik more fidgety. Condensation grew on the outside of the bottle, and he wiped it with his thumb, leaving a streak. The moisture gathered at his thumbprint, tracked down the bottle like a tear.

It was stupid.

She was stupid.

Her face was stupid.

Marik smiled. Just as quickly, he scowled, slamming the bottle down on the table. He stood and paced to the wall just in time to remember there was no window; his scowl deepened.

Odion hadn’t moved.

“Do you remember”—Marik hesitated, but there was no point to stopping something halfway through—“your first time above ground?”

Slowly, Odion’s eyes slid open.

“Yes, master.”

“How did you feel?”

Marik rarely ever did that—asked about _feelings._ It was strange; the lack of free choice as a tombkeeper had been torture in many ways but simple and easy in others. He’d never needed to wonder about feelings, opinions, plans . . . not when everything he was meant to think and feel was laid out for him. If he’d lived out life as his father had intended him to, he would have received the initiation, recovered, and returned to his duties the same as before. Around his eighteenth birthday, he would have married some girl from another clan who was deemed “most likely to produce a strong male heir.” They would have had said male heir, whatever it took, and the cycle would have started all over again, with Marik as father this time.

But in reality, by the time Marik’s initiation had arrived, he’d been so far off the path that he’d had to be physically dragged back and chained to it. And if he was honest, it had all started with feelings. He’d been too emotional to be a tombkeeper from the very start, the boy who cried over killing scorpions, who missed the mother he’d never met so hard he sometimes couldn’t breathe. While Odion could take beatings without a sound and Ishizu could endure Father’s screaming with a straight face, Marik couldn’t even handle a look of disapproval without trembling.

His father had tried to discipline the weakness out of him, and look where that had led them.

“I felt . . . sore,” Odion finally said.

Marik snorted. Not because it was funny but because Odion had misunderstood his question, and he couldn’t blame him.

“I worried you were dead,” Marik said quietly.

He could still remember . . .

It had been fourteen days to the initiation, and Marik had sobbed into Odion’s shirt in a way he’d never done before. His emotional weakness had led Odion to ask if he could receive the initiation on Marik’s behalf, if he could truly be eldest son to the Ishtar family despite the lack of bloodline.

Everything that followed had been a result of Marik’s weakness.

But he wasn’t weak anymore. He gripped the rod, pressed his fingers into the gold and imagined leaving nail marks. He wasn’t—

“It was sunrise.”

Odion’s voice had gone quiet, choked in a way Marik had rarely heard before. He turned, lowering his hand, releasing the rod.

“Above ground.” Odion blinked hard, looking up like he could see the sun even now. His expression hovered just before a smile. “I think . . . it was the first time I saw . . . pink. I think it was the first time I called anything . . . beautiful.”

Marik smiled.

++++++++++

Joey knew exactly what Serenity wanted to talk about, and by the time the door to his room slid closed behind them, he’d prepared every argument possible to tell her exactly what kind of class-A scumbag Duke Devlin was.

And, boy, did he tell her.

She sat at the table, but he was too wound up, so he paced, waving his arms as he spoke when the leg movement wasn’t enough to burn the energy volcano in his stomach. He told her everything about their meeting in detail: Duke’s scam, his underhanded challenge for Yuugi, the way he tossed Joey like bait. Duke was arrogant, violent-tempered, mean. He had a puffed-up store with greedy prices and crap selection. His ripped-off dice game had more rules than a self-righteous government. He had a tattoo and a ponytail and came from _California;_ that should have ended the discussion right on the spot. He was the bad news that even bad news feared.

Joey kept going until he was out of dirt to kick, and then he planted his own and kicked it, too. Only when he was satisfied there was no possible way Serenity could dig her would-be boyfriend out from under the mountain of his clear scumbagginess did he finally sit and release a sigh.

He waited for Serenity’s acceptance.

He waited for her protests.

He waited.

And she just looked at him, chin propped in her hands, elbows braced on the table.

“Do you remember”—she smiled—“when you took me to the beach for my birthday?”

If she hadn’t been nodding along while he spoke, he might have thought she hadn’t heard the whole rant.

He shrugged, picking at a scratch on the metal table. “’Course I do. It was what made Mom take off.”

Serenity reached out to grip his hand. “Mom wanted to leave for years. She just finally decided on an excuse.”

Joey shrugged again.

“We made a sandcastle at the beach. We found a little crab, and you gave me a seashell.”

He couldn’t see what any of it had to do with Dice Devlin. “And?”

“Mom and Dad wouldn’t take me no matter how I begged. You had to step in for both of them.” She squeezed his hand, smiled at him with tears in her eyes. “Joey, you don’t have to be my parent just because ours fall short. Just be my brother.”

Joey looked away. He had something stuck in his throat that wouldn’t clear no matter how he tried.

“I don’t like him,” he finally managed.

“I know,” she said. “But I do.”

He scowled at the wall, tried to ignore the burning in his eyes.

“Joey, if I have to choose, I’ll choose you. Please don’t make me.”

She’d snuck into the tournament after their mom clearly and forcefully said no, snuck out of the hospital while still blind with nothing to guide her but trust in his friends, people she’d never even met before. Joey was sure that even if the whole world turned against him, Serenity would still be on his side.

He wanted to be on hers, too.

“If he hurts you,” he said, “I’ll kill him. That ain’t a metaphor—I’ll straight up chop his head off.”

She smiled. “I’d expect nothing less from my best brother.”

She got up and hugged him. Half of him hoped Dice-boy knew how freaking lucky he was. The other half of him wondered if he’d ever be as lucky. Truth was, the mountain of dirt he threw at Duke was barely a speed bump compared to what he could throw at himself. Girls at school either saw him as a thug or a loser, with nothing between, and he could joke about it all he wanted, but . . .

“We better head to the lounge.” He forced a grin. “I got a good feelin’ I’m duelin’ next!”

“It’s about time,” Serenity teased. “I came to this tournament to see you duel, and it’s taken so long, I picked up a boyfriend first.”

Joey winced. “Let’s just go easy on that . . . ‘boyfriend’ stuff for a while. Okay?”

“Sure thing. I’ll let my boyfriend know you want us to play it cool.”

He scowled while she giggled.

But at least she was happy.

++++++++++

Dehydration was the final diagnosis for Ryou after a full examination. He needed rest and fluids, the main doctor said, and after he awoke, he would need a full meal.

“This is basically what we expected from the tournament,” the doctor added. “You set hundreds of people loose in the city, and they run all over without stopping to think about food or water. Not to mention the physical toll running a Duel Disk takes on someone after a couple of back-to-back matches. We put all kinds of warnings in the tournament rulebook, and a packet of waivers as thick as my fist, but when has that ever stopped anyone? Your friend will be just fine.”

Anzu thanked him and took a seat next to Ryou’s bed, careful not to disturb the metal stand that held his IV fluids. She nibbled on a cracker. (After the doctor had asked about her own condition, she’d hesitantly admitted to throwing up, and she’d immediately been given a new water bottle and a full sleeve of lightly buttered crackers.)

The doctor stepped outside the curtain, leaving her alone with Ryou.

Anzu tapped her nails on the water bottle, picked at the thin plastic label.

“I think I’m crazy,” she admitted quietly.

Ryou, of course, gave no response. She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth about Marik. He would probably toss her a die and say, “Odds of a monster encounter are 90 percent. Up to you if you proceed.” Unlike Joey and Tristan, Ryou was always calm no matter what crazy came their way.

Unless the crazy came from inside him. Then he was in a worse boat than her.

 _“We’re_ crazy,” she amended, smiling faintly. “At least we’re not alone.”

She knew she should tell Yuugi about Ryou’s condition. He would want to know.

She should tell him a lot of things.

Static crackled faintly from the overhead intercom, then cleared as the announcement started for finalists to meet in the lounge for the next lottery.

What if Yuugi dueled Marik?

Anzu groaned and started to drop her head into her hands, only stopping when she remembered her brace. Courtesy of Marik.

She really was crazy.

As she waited for the next announcement, she rubbed her sweaty palm on her skirt, pleading silently that the duelists wouldn’t be Marik and Yuugi. Let it be Ishizu. Let it be Odion. Let it be Yori. Let it be Joey.

_“The first duelist of the third match will be—”_

Anzu held her breath, squeezed her eyes closed.

_“—finalist number six.”_

Yuugi’s number. Anzu clutched the water bottle to her chest, her throat burning.

_“The second duelist will be finalist number—”_

Yori. Joey.

Anyone but Marik.

_“—one!”_

Marik was finalist number two.

Anzu’s breath expelled from her in a rush; she sagged in her chair. The announcement continued, inviting spectators to head immediately to the aircraft’s roof.

She lifted herself, set the crackers and water aside, and ducked outside the curtain. A member of the medical staff sat at the room’s entrance, going over a small stack of papers on a clipboard. Anzu asked if someone could take a message to Yuugi Mutou that she would miss his duel because she was helping Ryou. It felt like a silly thing to ask, but even if Yami was dueling, Yuugi would worry if two of his friends were missing.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said with a friendly smile. “I’ll send someone right away. The matches are broadcasted live, so if you’d like, I could see about arrangements for you to view it here.”

While Anzu would have liked to see her best friend duel, she didn’t want to create a hassle for the staff.

And it wouldn’t really be her best friend dueling anyway.

“I’m okay,” she assured her, “but thank you.”

She returned to her chair. Drank half the water bottle. Reached for a cracker.

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t get the image of Marik’s father out of her mind.

 _All is done by the pharaoh’s will,_ the prophecy had said. Marik had read the record a hundred times. Was it just an empty expression? Was it a lie?

She set the crackers aside.

“Everything’s a mess, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

Ryou, of course, didn’t respond.

++++++++++

“It’s your own fault,” Ryou muttered to himself, painting the model before him as if it meant something, as if it made any difference, as if it were real.

If he didn’t paint, he’d think about his sister again, hear her humming like he used to whenever walking by her open bedroom door. She’d be sprawled on the floor, drowning in sheet music, trying to commit every measure to memory while she couldn’t touch the keys. Father had promised to buy a piano at least a hundred times, but there was always a new excuse why money had to go somewhere else first: a new expedition, a new car, a new investment, absolutely necessary. So Amane continued practicing in borrowed music rooms between lessons, and she continued humming sheet music at home. If she saw Ryou walk by her room, she would sing his name to the current tune. Every time.

And Ryou didn’t want to hear it now. So he painted.

If he didn’t paint, he’d think about his mother again, see her standing by her silver candy pot at the stove. She’d have on her yellow apron and gloves, mixing flavoring into sugar syrup before pouring it out to fold and cool until she could pull it with her hands. That was Ryou’s favorite—watching something liquid turn into something she could pull and twist and pull until it hardened into something completely new. It was magic. And when the candy was ready, he and Amane would fight over who could have the first piece. His mother always made taffy on the weekends, when she was home from work. Sometimes she would sell it to the neighbors and sometimes she would give it away at her office, but there was always extra in a glass dish at home, and Ryou always took some to school so he could close his eyes and taste the peppermint or lemon or strawberry while imagining he was home.

And he didn’t want to taste it now. So he painted.

Everything was real in his mind. It wasn’t just a memory or a dream; it was as real as when it had happened the first time. It was the worst part of being aware now while the spirit was in control, and Ryou had to imagine something to keep his hands busy or else he’d go crazy trapped in the realness of truth that had long since expired.

Another scream ripped the air open. Ryou’s flinch dropped the brush from his hand, but all he had to do was imagine another one. The scream died, gave way to the spirit of the ring’s familiar cackling laugh.

“It’s your own fault,” Ryou repeated. His hands trembled.

He’d tried to interfere in the shadow game, tried against his best judgment to stand in for the spirit who’d made his life a strawberry-flavored, humming hell. But the spirit didn’t want help, didn’t want anything from Ryou except to stand in his shoes in mortality. He’d made that clear a hundred times before, and Ryou had decided it was time to finally take the hint. If he went charging in like a hero, the spirit would either laugh or curse at him. Either way, he’d tell Ryou to get lost. Besides, the spirit had more power than Ryou could even dream of. If he couldn’t help himself against the shadows, there was certainly nothing Ryou could do.

There’d been no reason to start a shadow game in the first place, no reason it couldn’t have been a friendly match. After all the work it took to make it to the finals, facing the tournament organizer himself should have been the match of a lifetime. Ryou would have savored every minute, win or lose. He’d certainly never have another chance to face Kaiba head to head.

But the spirit couldn’t let anything be simple. Not even a game.

Another scream. Ryou pressed his palms to his skull, rubbed the skin around his eyes. He imagined a tray of blue paint, willing his favorite color to calm his mind.

But his mind didn’t calm. Instead, it reminded him of Bonz’s blue shirt and how the duelist had screamed after losing a shadow game to the spirit, of the way he’d convulsed like a man dropped in a tank of live spiders, of the way he’d fallen ominously silent at the end of it all. It was no coincidence; Bonz had dueled Joey in a cave during Duelist Kingdom, and Ryou had seen the way he spasmed away from a spider after the duel’s conclusion. Although Ryou was nowhere near Yuugi’s level of control with his item, he wasn’t daft. He understood the basic rules of the shadows, the way the games were decided and the way the punishments were just as personalized.

With the next scream, Ryou overturned the tray of paint. It disappeared.

“You shouldn’t have made it a shadow game!” he shouted. Who knew if the spirit could even hear him.

He’d be a fool to pit himself against the shadows for the sake of someone who hated him.

He’d be a fool to try to save someone who’d just betray him. Again.

He’d be a fool.

After another few moments, Ryou exited his soul room and stood before the spirit’s. He’d never been inside. There was no handle on the elaborate gold door, but the spirit had made it abundantly clear that a doorknob didn’t matter in the mind; otherwise Ryou could have at least had some peace and quiet while caged.

He pressed a hand to the gold, forced it open.

Even before the door finished its full arc, the banshee shrieking of the shadows filled Ryou’s ears as an omnipresent wail. The darkness in the room was so thick he could breathe it, feel it crawling in his nostrils and down his throat. Red skulls swirled around him in a tornado, cut off his light until they were all he could see, and the unhinged jaws laughed at his audacity.

If Ryou hadn’t spent his life obsessed with the occult, he might have been scared.

As it was, he was just irritated. At the shadows, at the spirit. At himself.

“Let him go,” Ryou said, steel in his voice now that he’d made his decision.

 _Justice,_ the shadows whispered.

The spirit certainly deserved karma for his actions, but Ryou had always been in support of undeserved mercy. After all, he was a fool.

“It’s not a negotiation. Let him go.”

The shrieking began to calm, to peel away, like a wave of shadows falling back. Another sound rose in its place, almost a purr.

_Power._

One of the skulls passed through his chest, making colors burst in his vision. His mind tingled with the promise of an end to his weakness. _He_ would be the one in charge. _He_ would be the one commanding the ring with absolute authority. The spirit would _bow_ before him—

“I don’t want your power,” Ryou spat. “I never wanted any of this.”

 _Power_ , the shadows insisted, and a new idea entered his mind, one that tried to convince him he could use the shadows to end his suffering, to put everything back the way he wanted. But the high had passed; the only power Ryou had ever wanted in life was the power to raise the dead, and the shadows couldn’t give him that.

“You have to the count of three,” Ryou said, imitating his own mother in moments when she’d been most irate.

_Price._

“Pay your own bloody price. One.”

_Price._

“No. Two.”

_Price._

“Three.”

They stood at an impasse. It had been a long shot to think he’d be able to simply pull the spirit away, to think he could command the darkness to break from its basic rules when he didn’t even understand where its power came from or where the rules originated.

The air shivered as the spirit screamed again. His screams had been belligerent at first, but now his voice cracked at the edges.

 _“If we have a need, we need to pay.”_ It was what Ryou’s father had always said as he headed off to make the next very-necessary purchase. His dad may have mixed up his priorities, but it didn’t mean he was wrong about everything.

“Let me share it, then. But two people means half the torture, half the time, half the intensity.”

The purring grew, like Ryou had scratched the perfect spot behind the darkness’s ear.

_Yes._

So it was that after nearly a year of owning the ring, Ryou made his first deal with the dark.


	10. The Third Duel

Ishizu didn’t need to turn to know Shadi was standing behind her. It wasn’t that he gave off some mystical presence she could feel; she’d simply looked into the future before ever climbing aboard the blimp.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Her quiet words were frosted with contempt.

“Very rarely.”

Shadi moved around the table, reached for the second chair on what seemed to be instinct, then smiled ruefully as his hand passed through.

“From your greeting”—he flexed his fingers before lowering them—“I will assume the encounter about to unfold does not end well for the pharaoh. Or have you suddenly developed a concern for your fellow Ishtars that surpasses duty?”

In a rare display of emotion, Ishizu surged to her feet, pressing her hands to the table.

“I have always cared for my family,” she spat. “Marik’s safety is the _reason_ I uphold my duty.”

“Of course. _Safety_ is the reason you forced him to take the initiation that, by rights, killed you all.”

As if Shadi had any right to speak about her motives when his own were so corrupt.

“And what of you?” She laughed with amusement she didn’t feel. “You go against the gods’ will to save your pet but still pretend loyalty.” She narrowed her eyes. “Even with his faults, Marik is a better tombkeeper than you.”

“He’ll be touched, I’m sure. Since he cares so very much about being a good tombkeeper.”

The barb stung more than Ishizu wanted to admit. She could still remember the first time Marik had seen Father’s back, how he’d cried in her room afterward and asked her if she thought it would hurt.

 _“Not at all,”_ she’d lied. _“You’re serving the pharaoh and the gods, and no faithful service goes unrewarded. They’ll take the pain away. You won’t feel a thing.”_

Her lie had carried him for years, until he was too old for blind faith. At that point, he’d stopped confiding in her completely, instead saving such confidences for Odion. Ishizu knew why. When Marik confessed to her that he didn’t want to be a tombkeeper, she never even let him finish the thought. She spoke about duty and privilege and tradition until she was blue in the face, until she’d bullied him into agreement. If he expressed doubts about the gods’ care for humanity in general and tombkeepers in specific, she berated him for blasphemy.

And that was to say nothing of her most severe betrayal of his trust.

“I’m not a traitor,” she whispered, eyes burning. Her greatest fear had always been that Marik’s path would take him away from his duty and that he would be punished for it greatly, whether by gods or their father. She’d foolishly thought unwavering dedication on her part would inspire the same response in him.

Her tactics were no surprise; she was her father’s daughter, after all.

“There is still time,” Shadi said, his voice very nearly gentle, “and Marik is still within reach. Reconciliation now could make all the difference.”

His lie was as flawed as hers had been all those years ago.

She sat calmly, composed her skirt, touched the Millennium Necklace with clear meaning.

“There is no ‘could.’ All is set in stone.”

Shadi shook his head. “I had hoped I could convince you to reason, but the Ishtars have ever been a stubborn line.”

Stubborn and soon-to-be dead, unless Ishizu acted with precision. Her mother and father were already gone; she and Marik were all that remained of the pure lineage. She had begged guidance from the shadows and been shown only one opening to save her brother. She couldn’t risk reckless action for any reason.

Her only regret was the sacrifice required; she couldn’t save both Odion and Marik. The last time she’d tried, her father had paid the price.

“Tears?” Shadi lifted an eyebrow. “On the topic of pointless acts, mourning a loss entirely preventable seems fitting.”

Ishizu turned away, touched her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

She tried to think of a scathing response for him, but by the time she’d composed herself and turned back, the spirit was gone.

++++++++++

Yami had hoped to fight Marik in his duel of the semi-finals, but his bodyguard Ghoul was the next best thing. He noted with some surprise that the man introduced himself as Odion Ishtar when they shook hands.

“Marik’s brother?” Yami asked, commenting on the shared surname.

But Odion gave no response, offering his deck to be cut. Yami traded decks with him, and his surprise only increased as he noticed the Ghoul’s gentle touch on the card edges. He’d expected Marik’s right-hand man to be the most corrupt of the Ghouls, but instead, he recognized the first signs of an honorable opponent.

Still, he wouldn’t hold out hope. Let the duel speak for itself.

As Yami took his place on the field, facing the wind, Joey bellowed loudly from the spectator platform below:

“Kick his bald, Egyptian butt, Pharaoh!”

While the others teased Joey about descriptive word choice, Yami glanced over and caught Yori’s eyes. Her smile was beautiful even while subdued, and her wink set his heart racing. She’d offered to return his jacket to him for the duel, but he’d insisted she keep it, and he was glad he had: She looked far more comfortable on the platform now than she had during the opening duel.

Having the support of two people he cared about greatly—not support for Yuugi, but support for _him—_ caused Yami’s earlier greed to again rear its head. But now was not the time for any thoughts of the future.

On the platform to his left, Marik watched the proceedings with a face empty of emotion. The only indication to his thoughts had been the way he’d clapped his companion on the shoulder after the numbers were drawn. Maybe he was done playing tease and was ready for decisive matches.

So be it.

“What do you think?” Yuugi asked, standing next to him, sizing up their opponent.

//First impressions,// was Yami’s reserved response.

“Let the match begin!” the referee shouted.

Odion made no claim to the opening turn, so Yami drew an additional card and played Alpha the Magnet Warrior [1400/1700] in defense mode. He considered adding a facedown card but refrained. Let him see how the Ghoul would respond to an open target.

With a “You’ve got this,” Yuugi disappeared to allow him to concentrate.

//Thanks, partner.//

Odion’s first card was a field spell, Temple of the Kings. Behind him, a set of yellow stone stairs shimmered to life, lined with matching pillars the size of elephant legs. The temple itself was simple in design, not much more than a roof on pillars. But there was a large altar at the top of the steps that was pure gold, every inch of its surface covered in hieroglyphs. An Eye of Horus and Eye of Ra had been carved into the wall above the altar, a watchful gaze to protect the contents of the altar, and a statue of Anubis stood guard on the stairs before it.

The altar would be the key to the card’s power.

Sure enough, Odion slid a second card into the field spell slot and said, “I’ll seal this monster within my temple’s sacred altar.”

Yami set his jaw. “Now, that wouldn’t happen to be your god card, would it?”

“In three turns, the monster will emerge without a sacrifice. Then you may witness for yourself.”

So much for the strategy of forcing him to discard the god from his hand while he gathered the needed sacrifices. Yami’s best hope now was to destroy the temple.

Odion played two cards facedown, ending his turn without summoning a monster. He’d done nothing to take Yami’s open bait, and he hadn’t played incautiously or like an amateur. More than likely, his facedown cards were both traps; he was holding a fort, waiting for Yami to come to him.

Yami completed his draw phase, studying the six cards in his hand. Heavy Storm would wipe out all magic and trap cards on the field; it seemed like the straightest path forward. There was a risk, of course, since Yami couldn’t lay any traps of his own without destroying them, but it was a risk he would have to take since he only had three turns in which to destroy Odion’s temple.

“I summon Gazelle, the King of Mythical Beasts [1500/1200],” Yami said, “in attack mode.”

The single-horned lion roared as it appeared on the field, and as Yami switched his first monster into attack mode as well, the magnet warrior shouted a battle cry to match.

“I’ll also activate the magic card Heavy Storm.”

Odion’s face remained as stoic as ever, showing no recognition of the card name. Yami slid Heavy Storm into place, and its hologram rose on the field before him. A tornado of wind erupted from the card, sweeping across the field.

But the instant it touched the first temple step, it vanished. One of Odion’s trap cards rose, revealing a glowing canine figure.

“Now you will suffer the Judgment of Anubis,” Odion said gravely.

Yami gritted his teeth.

“Your spell is destroyed, as are your monsters, and further punishment is cut from your life.”

As Odion made the declaration, Yami’s two monsters howled before shattering on the field. He felt the burn in his arm, hissing as his lifepoints dropped to 2550. It was still his turn, but he had an empty field, and he’d already expended his normal summon for the round.

Odion narrowed his eyes. “I have drawn first blood, Pharaoh.”

Yami was sure if he would have glanced to the side, he would have seen triumph in Marik’s face. But he kept his eyes on the field.

“Well.” He smiled. “Now I have a feel for your strategies. Time you got a taste of mine.”

++++++++++

The pharaoh played one card facedown before ending his turn. Like everything else in life, when Odion had set his mind to learning Duel Monsters, he’d given his full dedication. He was a skilled enough player to recognize a bluff when he saw one; and even if it wasn’t a bluff, no single card would be enough to fully stop Odion’s planned attack.

After completing his draw phase, he played two cards facedown.

And then, thanks to the field benefit of Temple of the Kings, he activated all three of his facedown traps.

The three Embodiment of Apophis cards rose one after another, casting white light across the field. A purple-and-black serpent twice the size of a man slithered from the first, fangs bared at the pharaoh. It reared up and sprouted human arms and a human head at the center of its body, armed and outfitted like a warrior. Two matching monsters emerged from each of the subsequent cards.

The panic on the pharaoh’s face was obvious.

//It seems your temple’s trap benefits have thrown our poor pharaoh for quite a loop.// Even in Odion’s mind, Marik’s voice held a smirk. //Spineless as well as nameless.//

A twinge of pain gripped Odion’s chest, but his face remained stoic.

“Hey!” The loud, blonde spectator decided to be vocal again, jabbing a finger at Odion’s side of the field. “That temple card is way too O.P. lettin’ baldie activate traps without waitin’ a turn! I bet it’s a fake the Ghouls made up. Those—”

“All moves within the match have been legal to this point,” the referee declared, stopping him short.

“Your field is empty, Pharaoh,” Odion announced. “And this duel is over.”

Each of Odion’s trap monsters had an attack strength of 1600. Two would have been enough to wipe out the pharaoh’s remaining lifepoints. Three was overkill, but Odion had taken the precaution in case his opponent’s single facedown card had any power behind it.

“On the contrary.” The pharaoh’s face had returned to calm, and it was impossible to tell if the panic had been the bluff or if the current calm was. “It has one surprise left.”

He activated his facedown card, De-Spell. It destroyed Odion’s Temple of the Kings in a flash of light. Odion grimaced as the smoke cleared. The compartment on his Duel Disk popped open, and he slid his field spell into the graveyard beneath his deck holder. The god card he’d sealed within his temple altar returned to his hand, and he swallowed hard as Osiris’s eyes pierced him no matter how he tried to look another direction.

Although he’d obeyed Marik and added the god card to his deck, he’d never summoned it. He never would.

“Oi, Pharaoh!” the blonde shouted. “The building’s a building, but you didn’t do anything about the freaky snakes!”

It was true; Odion’s win was still secure. All he needed to do was attack.

He raised a hand, opened his mouth.

And then Marik’s voice rang through his mind: //Summon the god, Odion.//

Odion should have done so immediately. For years, an immediate “Yes, Master Marik” had been his response to every request. It was the duty his mother had charged him with, the obedience her husband had beaten into him.

But before he’d ever said, “Yes, Master Marik,” he’d said, “Yes, Master Ahmed.” Before Marik’s birth, Odion had been dedicated heart and soul to the man he’d prayed would see him one day as a son. That day had never come; instead, Ahmed had looked Odion in the eye and told him the truth: Odion could never be an Ishtar, could never be a tombkeeper. His was a disgraced lineage. His birth mother had abandoned her duty to the clan along with her duty to him, and as head of clan, Ahmed had been forced to take Odion in and provide for him, but the only duty Odion could ever claim was the duty to atone for his birth mother’s failings.

Playing a god card invoked the vicarious power of a true god, and for a tombkeeper, such a thing was allowed.

For Odion, such a thing would be sacrilege.

So he did not sacrifice his three monsters to summon a god.

Instead, he ordered them to attack.

Marik’s exclamation of rage pressed against Odion’s skull as the three snake-warriors slithered forward. One after another, their swords sliced through the pharaoh while he grimaced through the pain. The duel was over. No matter the means, Odion had defeated the pharaoh, and in time, Marik would hopefully forgive him. It was unlikely the gods would ever do the same.

Except.

Amidst the attacks, the pharaoh slid a card into his graveyard. And when Odion’s monsters retreated to his side of the field, the pharaoh’s lifepoints remained untouched.

“By discarding Kuriboh [300/200] from my hand,” the pharaoh said, “all battle damage I’ve taken this turn becomes zero.”

A chorus of cheers rose from his friends on the observation platform.

Marik was ominously silent.

The pharaoh smirked. “I’m certain your trap strategies give you the immediate upper-hand against most opponents.”

He left the obvious unspoken: He wasn’t most opponents. He’d destroyed Odion’s temple and neutralized his wave of trap monsters, but that wasn’t the worst of it; Odion was a trap master, yet he’d walked right into both.

“One question remains.” The pharaoh’s intense gaze was as unsettling as a god card’s. “With three monsters on the field and no expended tribute summon, why didn’t you call out your god?”

Odion said nothing, but he was well aware he’d given himself away.

After adding a single facedown card to the field, he ended his turn.

++++++++++

Odion was being a fool again. He was always a fool when it came to matters of family and birthright and duty, always quick to fall on the condemning sword he was the only one holding. Marik had hoped that by giving his brother Osiris, Odion would come to see reason. Apparently, he hadn’t. And if Odion lost to the pharaoh, Marik would kill him for his insolence.

No.

He wouldn’t.

He never would.

Marik’s fingers itched for the rod, and he rubbed his thumb across the top of its orb. Odion _would_ summon the god, and he _would_ defeat the pharaoh. Although Marik ached for his personal revenge, there would be time later. For now, it was two birds with one stone; breaking the pharaoh’s confidence and strengthening Odion’s.

//Summon the god, Odion,// he insisted again.

Odion wouldn’t look at him. The unrest in his mind was like a boiling pot, and Marik could feel the steam without even extending his hand. If he kept up with his foolishness, the pharaoh would get the best of him.

Marik would overtake Odion’s mind and duel for him before he allowed such a disgrace to happen.

When the pharaoh went on the offensive, Odion played a trap that allowed him to replace his field spell, and he sealed the god card once more within his temple—not as a means of summoning it, but as a means of putting it out of sight and out of mind. Fool. The pharaoh destroyed two of his monsters, and Odion used the remaining one to tribute summon the Mystical Beast of Serket [2500/2000]. Fool. Serket would gain half the attack strength of any monster it destroyed, but the pharaoh stopped its attack and sacrificed his own monsters to summon his Dark Magician [2500/2100].

Before Marik could think better of it, he gripped the rod and sent his mind out.

Not to Odion.

To the girl who’d disturbed his peace.

“You have an older brother,” he said, sitting next to her in the auditorium her mind used as its center for thought. “How do you convince him to obey when something is in his interest?”

Anzu seemed to have adjusted to his invasions—at the very least, she didn’t comment on this one.

“The doctor said Ryou will be fine, thanks for asking.”

“Just answer the question.” His fingers drummed against his knee, the same rhythm vibrating his skull with the concentration required to actively keep track of her and the duel simultaneously.

“How do I convince Taro to be smart?”

“Yes.”

“No one can convince an idiot to be smart.”

Marik glared at her through half-lidded eyes, and she smiled.

“What?” She shrugged as if she were helpless in the matter. “He’s an older brother; it’s in the job description. If Odion’s being an idiot, be happy. It means you’re really brothers.”

She’d picked up more from his mind than he’d expected. Perhaps more than he should have been comfortable with.

“Hey,” she said to his silence. Her voice had changed. Softened. She leaned across the seat arm dividing them, close enough he might have felt her breath in the real world. “I think you need to hear something, and I’m nothing if not a blunt friend, so you’re about to hear it from me.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said flatly. He didn’t even know what she would say. She was just too close. Much too close.

“What happened when you were a kid wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“Stay out of my mind.” It was really the least intelligent thing he could have said considering he was currently in her mind and the only times she’d been in his had been completely his own doing. But he had to say something to close the cover before she could keep reading.

He returned to reality, blinked the world back into focus, and fixed his eyes on Odion. The duel had advanced to a point of no return, and the lifepoints were tied, 1000 to 1000. The pharaoh had Buster Blader [2600/2300] on the field in addition to two facedown cards. Odion’s field was empty except for his temple and the god waiting to be called from within. It was his turn.

There was no option left but to summon the god.

Where persuasion failed, threats wouldn’t. Marik had learned that from his father.

//Summon the god, Odion. Or I’ll do it for you.//

Marik had never completely overtaken Odion’s mind before, never controlled him. But as they locked eyes across the open space, he made sure his expression left no room for doubt that he would if he must.

“You’ve been an honorable opponent,” the pharaoh said. Already anticipating his win. The bastard.

Marik whipped the rod from his belt, raised it at Odion with fire in his eyes.

And Odion finally bowed his head in acceptance.

“Earlier in the duel,” he declared, “I sealed a card within the altar of my sacred temple.”

Murmurs hummed through the audience. The pharaoh’s eyes widened. Marik smirked.

“I am now able to summon it without sacrifice. Behold: Osiris, the Great Storm God!”

As Odion raised a hand to the sky, an immense crack of red lightning split the stars. Wind howled across the blimp’s surface, and sparks of crimson electricity hissed in the air, branching and connecting like netting spilling from the open temple altar. The electricity took on the pattern of scales, and the scales filled with solid color the shade of blood. An enormous snake-like dragon took form, wrapped in coils that crushed Odion’s temple to rubble, barbed tail spilling off the side of the blimp, double-mouthed head poised above the dueling field. Its twin mouths roared in a wave of thunder that brought everyone to their knees.

Including Odion.

“Master,” he cried, eyes wide and terrified, “it’s too powerful!”

But Marik laughed. He clung to the railing of the viewing platform, rod clenched tightly in his hand, wrist pressed to the side of his head while his eardrums sang with the after-echo of unbridled supremacy.

“How will you stand against the wrath of a real god, Pharaoh?!” he shouted above the wind. Odion would crush the pharaoh where he stood.

Lightning struck the center of the dueling platform, scorching the metal black.

“Master, I can’t control it!”

Of course he could. All he had to do was—

“Attack!” Marik shrieked. He hauled himself to his feet, pointed at the pharaoh.

Trembling, Odion stood, but his face was resigned, not triumphant.

Another blinding flash of light, and the pharaoh collapsed, smoke rising from his clothing. But it wasn’t an ordered attack. His lifepoints didn’t zero out.

 _“Yami!”_ one of the girls screamed.

The dragon roared. The sky flashed red. The air itself shivered.

As the next bolt struck, Marik felt the thunder in his spine.

And he felt Odion’s scream in his soul.


	11. Backslide

Before the first turn completed in the third semi-finals duel, Seto wrote the contest off as a foregone conclusion. Yuugi would win; there was no reason for him not to. Even if the Ghoul _had_ the god card he pretended to, he was too cowardly to summon it. While the geeks squawked like headless chickens at each slight breeze within the match, Seto was unmoved, waiting silently for the inevitable conclusion.

The summoning of Osiris was unexpected, the coward-Ghoul’s lack of control less so.

But when the god decimated _both_ players, Seto found himself at a complete loss. Although he prided himself on always expecting and accounting for his best plans to go awry, _two_ unconscious participants wasn’t something he’d made provisions for in the tournament rulebook. With both players down, nothing on the field was even rendering anymore, which was something of a disappointment, since Seto would have enjoyed more than a glance at Osiris.

“Do you think they’re okay?” Mokuba asked, voice trembling.

“It’s just a hologram,” Seto said curtly. He’d seen the damage his own god card could do, and he wasn’t worried about either participant recovering—he _was_ worried about how to proceed with _both_ duelists unconscious and the duel unfinished, and for the first time, he was also worried that Yuugi wouldn’t last long enough in the finals for Seto to have his rematch.

The headless chickens on the opposite viewing platform squawked louder than ever, and Yori went as far as to climb up the side of the dueling field.

“Get down from there,” Fuguta shouted, “or you’ll be disqualified!”

Yori flipped him off and growled something Seto couldn’t quite hear but assumed matched the gesture.

“Yori,” Seto called out gruffly, “obey the field rules.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she snapped in response, hauling herself to her feet on the field. “He just got struck by _lightning.”_

“It’s a _hologram,”_ Seto repeated.

Even as he spoke, the Ghoul let out a low moan and stirred. Yori paused, glancing between him and Yuugi.

“Mr. Kaiba?” Fuguta glanced down with a frown. “How should the match proceed?”

“You make the official decision.” Seto inclined his head. “I’m a finalist, too.”

“First, you must get down,” Fuguta insisted, pointing at Yori.

Yori ignored him and stared straight at Seto. “Is the game all that matters to you?”

“I’m tournament organizer,” Seto shot back. “What do you want from me?”

They stared each other down. Mokuba shifted uncomfortably, but Seto didn’t budge an inch.

With a final glance at Yuugi’s unconscious form, Yori lowered herself back down to the viewing platform.

“Beginning now, the duelists have five minutes to resume play,” Fuguta declared. “If only one player is able to resume, he will advance in the finals. If both are unable, advancement will be decided at random since lifepoints are tied.”

A little messy, but not a terrible solution. And most importantly, Fuguta said it with confidence and without glancing at Seto for further confirmation, making the ruling truly impartial. As with all KaibaCorp employees, Fuguta was equipped with the necessary requirements of a working brain and backbone.

The minutes ticked by. Marik looked particularly agitated, standing at the back of the platform, gripping the railing like a lifeline with both hands. He seemed to be muttering to himself.

Seto shifted a step closer to Mokuba.

And they waited.

++++++++++

Yori stood in tense silence, arms folded tightly, gripping Yami’s jacket around herself.

The Ghoul had barely stirred after the lightning strike. Yami hadn’t moved at all. Neither of them seemed like they would be resuming the duel anytime soon, and although Seto insisted the lightning was nothing more than a good hologram . . . Yori couldn’t be so sure. The colossal red dragon had disappeared after both players hit the ground, but Yori could still feel the crackle of power in the hair along her arms. Much as she was in awe of Seto’s dueling system, Osiris and Obelisk were different from any other summoned monsters. And she’d felt the jolts of pain caused by dueling, but nothing strong enough to knock her unconscious.

Shadi was adamant the Egyptian gods existed, and Yori had no reason to doubt him; she wasn’t in the practice of doubting her gut feelings. She didn’t know the background of the god cards, didn’t know if they were real gods trapped in a game, creations blessed by gods, or just monsters out of Pegasus’s mind given impressive names to inspire fear—but she wasn’t putting money on the last one. Not after everything she’d seen.

“Come on, Yami,” Joey muttered, punching a fist repeatedly into his opposite palm. “Get up already.”

Tristan checked his watch.

How many minutes had passed? Were they halfway through the allotted time?

//Yuugi?// Yori tried. Then she turned away, hissing in pain as her skull seemed to collapse behind her eyes.

Something was definitely wrong.

She took a deep breath. Gripped the cold metal railing with both hands. Curled and uncurled her fingers.

“Ma chère, are you—”

“I’m alright,” Yori said, cutting Mai off mid-sentence. “Thanks.”

She turned back to face the field, closing her eyes. The Millennium Bracelet warmed against her wrist.

//Yami,// she said. The same kick-back pain flared in her mind, but she tightened her shoulders and breathed through it. //Come back.//

It was instinct that made her say “come back” rather than “wake up.” It wasn’t like he’d gently dozed off in a class or taken an afternoon nap in the sun; he’d been struck by Osiris-lightning. For all she knew, maybe the god had blasted his soul right out of the Millennium Puzzle. Maybe he would never come back. Maybe he was—

//Please.// She clenched her jaw against the pain, pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead as hard as she could and gripped her elbow. //Come back to me. Please, Yami.//

But when she opened her eyes, he was as still as ever.

++++++++++

Yami was in a maze. No matter how many staircases he climbed, he could never get any higher, and a right turn led him to the same point a left turn did. When he tried to go back, the path was bricked up.

“Hello?” he called, but it was useless. He was alone; he was always alone.

He tried another staircase. He tried another turn. But with every step, he realized he had no idea where the paths forward led, no idea what the destination was or how long it would take to get there. His only hope was to go back. Back was familiar; he’d been there before. He knew what it was like, knew how far the steps were.

But back was just bricks.

A right turn led him to a ledge and a new staircase. He sighed, rubbed his temples. After two steps up the staircase, he stopped and turned back.

Behind him was the same brick wall. He touched the stone, ran his fingertips down the caulking. He pressed his shoulder into it, pushed with the balls of his feet. It was as solid as it looked.

He couldn’t stay still; he knew that. It was either forward or back.

No, it was only forward. Back wasn’t an option. It was a wall.

But the more he looked at it, the more it grew like an itch in his mind.

“It isn’t easy to let go of.”

Yami whirled. Just as the wall always appeared behind him, a figure had appeared before him. But he was more light than person. Even squinting from beneath a hand, Yami could only make out lines of gold and red around the man’s headdress.

“The past,” the man clarified.

Something clicked. Somehow, he just knew, like he’d breathed the information in with the light.

“Osiris,” Yami said.

“Not all of us wanted things to go this way,” Osiris said. “Go ahead.”

When Yami turned back to the wall, it wasn’t a wall.

It was a door.

++++++++++

To say Yuugi was freaking out was an understatement. The duel had been going just fine; Yami had been in complete control, and Yuugi had been silently supportive while daydreaming about asking his friends to a day at the beach after the tournament ended. Anzu had a shell collection, and she was missing a strawberry conch. The last time they’d all gone together, Yuugi had helped her look until Joey distracted him with a beach ball to the head that turned into a game of keep away in the waves. Anzu hadn’t complained—had even joined in and conquered in the game—but Yuugi still felt bad. This time, he wouldn’t let anything distract him until he found her a strawberry conch.

Then the duel collapsed in an instant. Yuugi felt the pain of the lightning as a crack in every bone. His childhood became his future as his mind turned itself inside out trying to vomit. It felt like eternity before that rawness faded into a manageable level of dizzy, and at that point, he dragged himself to Yami’s soul room only to discover the door was gone. When he reached out with his mind, he couldn’t contact his best friend at all. He told himself it was the dizziness that made it so he couldn’t feel their connection. It couldn’t possibly be that Yami was gone or . . . worse. It was just the dizziness.

He tried to manifest in the real world with no better results. So to say he was freaking out was an understatement.

And a sudden appearance from Shadi did nothing to calm his nerves.

“What’s happening?” Yuugi demanded. The first time he’d met Shadi, the tombkeeper had weighed Yuugi’s heart with his Millennium Scales in order to determine if he’d stolen Pegasus’s Millennium Eye. Apparently if the scales would have found him guilty, he would have lost both hands.

It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“Relax, child,” Shadi said.

It wasn’t relaxing.

“The pharaoh is safe. He is in the hands of the gods.”

It didn’t sound safe.

Yuugi pressed his hands to his cheeks while resisting the urge to scream. He sat down in the narrow hallway, back against his soul room door.

“How do you know?” he choked out.

Shadi didn’t bother to answer. “I must issue a warning.”

“Why can’t you just show up for ice cream sometime? Okay?” Yuugi’s voice took on a hysterical note; he didn’t care. “Why can’t anybody just show up for ice cream? Why does it always have to be warnings and death threats and lightning?”

Shadi adjusted his robe. He bundled the bottom edge and seated himself beside Yuugi.

After a moment of silence, he said, “I apologize.”

“Oh.” Yuugi fiddled with his hair. “Thanks. Sorry, I’m just . . .”

“The pharaoh _is_ safe.”

Yuugi took a deep breath. “What’s the warning?”

“The war has begun.”

Shadi was never one to waste words. Yuugi pulled his knees up and tried to pretend he’d found a hidden oasis of calm.

“The war that—right, the war that Yami’s supposed to . . . finish.” He actually wasn’t sure of the details. He usually got messages about Yami secondhand, and they were vague to begin with.

“Among the sacred records that my clan guards, there is a prophecy about—”

Yuugi expected him to say “the pharaoh,” expected it so much that he jolted when he heard something different.

“—you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He shook his head. “There can’t be a prophecy about me; I’m nobody.”

Shadi seemed on the verge of a smile. “There are very few pharaohs in the world. Most of us are nobody.”

“Please don’t compare me to you. You’re thousands of years old, and you literally walk through walls. I’ll be lucky to graduate high school without repeating a year.”

“‘The throne that goes to war shall be emptied,’” Shadi said. “‘And the child shall take it.’”

The dizziness came back with a vengeance.

“That’s not about me.”

“It is.”

“It doesn’t say my name.”

“Names are not a common feature of prophecy. In the revelations of the Millennium Puzzle, you are also referred to as ‘the child.’”

Perfect. Yuugi shifted, suddenly paranoid that the door to his soul room would open behind him and bury them both in an avalanche of robot action figures.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

Shadi rose to his feet. He shook the hem of his robe even though it was impossible for it to have collected any dirt.

Yuugi stood as well. “Is Yami ‘the throne’?”

He felt sick at the thought. What did it mean by “emptied”? Yami wouldn’t . . . die. He couldn’t. And Yuugi wouldn’t take his place, not as pharaoh and not in any other way. He couldn’t.

“Sometimes I may interpret prophecy,” Shadi said. “But in this case, I am simply messenger. The war has begun in Domino, and yours is not the only prophecy now in motion.”

“I really wish”—Yuugi’s stomach pinched—“you’d just come for ice cream. Or even to weigh my heart.”

But Shadi was gone before he’d even finished.

++++++++++

The pain in Yori’s head had reached migraine levels by the time the referee began a final ten-second countdown. She never should have left the platform after she’d—

“Pharaoh!” Joey blurted suddenly.

Fuguta halted in his count as Yami slowly pushed himself to his elbows, then his knees. He stood, and he kept standing. The referee glanced across the field at the prone Ghoul, then raised a hand.

“Yuugi Mutou wins the duel!” he shouted.

Despite the pounding in her head, Yori ran forward. She jumped and caught the edge of the dueling platform steps, hauling herself up once more before rushing at Yami. He was blinking, as if unsure where he was, and his confusion probably only grew when Yori threw herself around his neck.

But he hugged her back.

The platform hissed and began lowering. Yori pulled away to meet Yami’s eyes, equal parts scared and relieved.

“Are you okay?” she demanded.

All he did was smile at her in a way that sprouted butterflies in her stomach. He reached up and gently brushed her hair out of her eyes, which made the butterflies all flock upward at once in an attempt to lift Yori off the ground.

She heard others clambering onto the dueling platform as it finished lowering, and she took a step back, ears hot.

“You won it, pal!” Joey said, slapping Yami on the shoulder. “I knew you would.”

“What happened?” Yami glanced around the field.

“You got hit by lightning,” Tristan said slowly. “Like, crazy realistic lightning. I thought for sure it wasn’t part of the game.”

“How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” Joey shoved a peace sign in Yami’s face.

“Two,” Yami said, without squinting and without pause. “I don’t . . .”

His eyes landed on Odion. Concern on his face, he strode forward to his fallen opponent and knelt at the man’s side. Yori and the others followed. Odion was barely conscious. His fingers twitched, and his eyelids fluttered, just enough to show internal struggle.

With some effort, Yami turned the man onto his back, one arm around his shoulders to half-lift him. Odion’s eyes slowly blinked open.

“Master Marik?” he rasped.

Yori cast a glance at the viewing platform. Marik stood alone at the far end with his back to everyone else, hunched against the railing. Obviously the loyalty only went one direction in that relationship.

“Are you alright?” Yami asked.

“I’m sorry,” Odion huffed, struggling for breath. “I’m sorry. I never meant . . .” He fumbled with his Duel Disk until he managed to scrape the god card free. His hand trembled as he pressed it to Yami’s chest. “Please—”

As soon as Yami took the card, Odion’s hand dropped, but the panic in his face remained.

“It’s my fault. I’m—I’m sorry.” A tear leaked from the corner of his eye. “It isn’t Marik’s. It’s . . . my . . .”

“Just rest,” Yami said gently.

Odion closed his eyes. He mumbled something else, and then his head rolled limply to the side.

“Hey, Fuguta!” Joey shouted, turning. “This guy needs a doctor or somethin’.”

“Yes, of course.” The referee hurried to them. “There’s a medical room downstairs. I’ll arrange a stretcher, but it will take a few minutes.”

“Well, screw that.” Tristan stepped forward and pulled Yami away, hooking Odion’s arm over his own shoulders. Joey got his other arm, and together, they hauled the Ghoul up. Tristan shifted to take Odion’s full weight on his back.

“You sure he ain’t too—”

Joey stopped abruptly as someone screamed—a terrible, throat-wrenching sound that raised goosebumps on Yori’s arms.

It was Marik.


	12. Darker Than Blood

Fourteen days before his tombkeeper’s initiation, Marik told Odion he’d rather die than go through with the ceremony.

Marik didn’t have a plan for how to avoid the initiation because he’d never been taught or permitted to make a plan of his own about anything, but the truth was there just the same: He would rather die. If he’d told Ishizu the truth, she would have berated him in a two-hour lecture and then forced him to say fourteen prayers for forgiveness. If he’d told his father the truth, the reaction would have been even worse.

So he told Odion. Because there was no one else he could tell, no one else he could trust. And after Marik’s desperate sobs faded into unsteady, quiet breaths, Odion told him a truth in return:

“I want the initiation.”

He said it was all he’d ever wanted, to be the true eldest son of the Ishtar family, to be the true heir. He said it like a confession of treason, like Marik was king and he was a servant leading a rebellion, but Marik took it like a gift from the gods. He was foolish enough to believe that it could all work out. Even as Odion left to speak with their father, Marik was foolish enough to believe the perfect solution had been found, that it would all be okay. He sat on his bed crying again, with relief this time, imagining how Father would gather the entire clan and announce Odion as the new heir. There would be some shots taken at Marik, some comments about his cowardice, his weakness, but he would take the cuts without bleeding, and after it was all settled, perhaps he could even go above ground to see the sun.

The screaming broke through his fantasies.

It was good he didn’t waste a moment to think. If he would have given room for thought, he might have run the other direction. He might have gone nowhere at all, curled up and covered his ears and cried to himself about bad-to-worse. But he didn’t think; he ran. It was a visceral response because he’d never heard Odion scream about anything before, but he knew the sound of his brother all the same.

Marik saw his father first, red-faced and sagging from exertion, a barbed whip in hand. He saw Odion second, collapsed on the ground.

And though Marik was used to seeing Odion’s back bloodied from a whipping, it was the first time he’d ever seen white in the red. At first, he didn’t even register it as bone.

“Marik,” Odion croaked, “I—”

And Father bellowed, “You will address your betters with the title _‘master!’”_

The whip came down, peeled back skin that had already been torn raw while Odion screamed again.

“Stop,” Marik whispered, but Father didn’t hear.

Another lash. Odion’s eyes rolled; he collapsed.

“STOP IT!” Marik screamed, latching onto his father’s arm.

With a grunt, his father threw him to the ground, pointing at him with the hand holding the whip. Odion’s blood dripped from the barbs, stained the inside of Marik’s ankle.

“You must learn, Marik,” Father said, “how to punish blasphemy.”

The lashes continued until Father was satisfied, and at the end of it all, he told the servants to take Odion to his room.

“Check him in the morning. If he’s dead, handle the corpse. Something unmarked—the clan burial grounds have no place for a heretic.” Then he turned cold eyes on Marik. “Stop your shameful tears this instant.”

Marik couldn’t help Odion; he didn’t know how. So for the first time in years, he turned to Ishizu. She sat at the edge of Odion’s bed, wiped the blood from his skin, sewed the lashes to hide the bone. And she didn’t say anything, but her eyes were wet, and it was enough to give Marik hope.

“I’m leaving,” he said, “and I’m taking Odion.”

They argued. She made excuses. But he didn’t bend because he realized the truth _wasn’t_ that he’d rather die than receive the initiation. The truth was he would die if he received it.

And he didn’t want to die.

In the end, she agreed. It was the first time Marik had ever convinced Ishizu to see his side of things, and it was the first time in years that he hugged his sister. Ishizu knew men in the Khouri clan who could help, who could transport Odion. Marik would have to distract Father while it happened; then Ishizu would distract Father while Marik followed.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” Ishizu said.

“When it’s safe, I’ll write,” Marik said. He would never come back, so it was all he could think to offer.

The next day, Marik held up his end of the plan, and when Ishizu came to tell him Odion was safely aboveground, he was once again foolish enough to imagine everything would work out.

Until he was surrounded by guards. Until he was dragged to his father. Until his father thanked Ishizu for warning him of Marik’s escape plan.

“I will purge your weakness,” Father said.

The guards chained Marik to the wall of the ceremonial chamber with a clear view of the altar he’d be sacrificed on. Every day, Father offered prayers at the altar on his behalf, asking the gods to purify Marik’s heart, which had been corrupted by the heretic, Odion. For the first three days, his father withheld food and water. Marik was given a limited meal on the fourth, but before he could be grateful for an end to the forced fast, it began again.

Marik screamed out his hatred for his father, the first time he’d ever done so, but the words seemed to glance right off Ahmed’s stone exterior; his only reaction was to increase his prayers.

Ishizu visited once with more of her excuses. If Marik had possessed the saliva, he would have spit in her face. As it was, he closed his eyes, refusing to look at her or speak to her until, finally, she left.

The days passed, draining Marik’s strength and sanity until the world around him turned foggier than a dream. Sometimes he imagined Odion was actually safe, that he would come to Marik’s rescue just in time. But in his heart, he knew the truth: His brother was dead. Buried in some unmarked grave by his father’s hand. And Marik would soon follow.

At last, the fateful morning arrived. It was his birthday. He was twelve years old.

His father prepared the room for the initiation. He scrubbed the altar with myrrh and cinnamon wine, brought in bundles of white linen, and arranged the ceremonial knives.

He lit seventy white candles.

The guards unchained Marik. Stripped him naked and scrubbed him with the same perfumes of myrrh. His weak attempts to fight were laughable, although no one laughed. He was dressed in white pants, his chest left bare.

His father tied him to the altar. The stone slab was like ice against Marik’s stomach.

The prayers were given, the first knife heated.

Then the first cut.

Marik’s screams echoed in the chamber, and when his father’s knife seared through his skin, something emerged darker than blood.

His father called for him to be gagged, which a guard did as the carving continued. The cloth muffled the sound, but Marik screamed all the same. His tears soaked the gag. He could smell the sour ink as his father rubbed it into his fresh, still-burning cuts.

The seconds stretched like years.

Until finally—

Father washed the last knife, set it beside the others. He rinsed Marik’s blood from his hands.

“Now you are reborn,” he said in his voice of gravel. “Marik Ishtar the child is dead.”

Marik felt the truth of that statement in his heart. But the new Marik born that day was not, as his father claimed, “Marik the tombkeeper.”

It was nothing so docile.

Marik passed in and out of consciousness. The guards untied him from the altar, bandaged his back, and then were dismissed. Marik and his father remained alone for the final step of the ceremony. His father gave him water, forced him to sit upright and awake.

“You are now ready, son, to enter the glorious tradition of our forefathers, to guard with loyalty the secrets of the nameless pharaoh until your death or his return.”

Father extended the Millennium Rod, the tombkeeper’s artifact that was as much his birthright as the wounds on his back, and Marik took it. As his fingers curled around the shaft, he felt the power of the rod stir his very soul.

And all at once, he was not in the tombs. He stood in a world of black, alone but for a life-sized reflection of himself in the darkness.

His reflection grinned, and the wide expression sent ripples of black across the rest of the image.

 _“Power?”_ it purred, an ethereal voice that came as much from the air itself as from the reflection. A question. An offer.

Marik looked at the rod, at the Eye of Horus that promised protection.

“Yes,” he said.

The reflection showed him from the back, shirtless, unbandaged, and bleeding. The fresh ink in his skin rippled shadows.

_“Revenge?”_

Marik gripped the rod with both hands.

“Yes,” he said.

With that, he was sitting once more in the cold underground room, drenched in perfumed blood and fear.

And the Eye of Horus glowed to life.

Marik felt its energy in his heart, felt it pumped out and back, out and back, until it filled his every shadow with calm, with certainty. He couldn’t breathe without pain, but he couldn’t breathe without power, and the power would avenge the pain.

“Good, Marik.” Father smiled. “Control the darkness. Command it.”

So Marik did.

He stood, bracing his free hand on the altar as his vision cracked. The world flashed in spots of light from the candles and spots of dark from the pain. Still, for the first time in his life, Marik was seeing clearly. The realization made him smile.

He raised the rod, and his father slammed backward against the wall, pinned as firmly as Marik had been during the initiation.

“Marik,” the man grunted, struggling. “What are you doing?”

“I think it’s best”—Marik giggled—“that you address your _betters_ with the title _‘master.’”_

He stepped and stumbled. Laughed again, hissed at the pain when his skin tightened. He gripped the rod with both hands, and in one powerful movement, he unsheathed the dagger lying in wait beneath the rod’s shaft. He dropped the outer shaft to the stone floor, and it sang on impact.

There was no one else in the room. No one to stop him. His father tried to call for guards, but Marik gripped his mind like he gripped the rod, sealed his mouth and enjoyed the fear that painted his eyes white.

“You are now ready, Father,” he said softly. “You have kept the glorious tradition of our forefathers, to guard with loyalty the secrets of the nameless pharaoh . . . until your death.”

Marik hoped desperately to see shameful tears. That ethereal voice hummed in his ears with the gold of fulfilled promises. _Power_ _. Revenge._ And when Marik breathed out, he sent black ripples through the air. When he smiled, one side of his face split wide.

He drove the dagger through his father’s rib cage until his fist hit skin. The shadows howled in delight. Though only in his mind, his father’s scream was exquisite.

“Now _you_ are reborn,” Marik snarled. He stabbed again. And again. His vision was gold and black; he was crying from the pain. But he was laughing, too. Or maybe only in his mind. He tried to let go of the rod and found that he couldn’t; it had consumed him.

At some point, he fell unconscious. When he woke, he rolled onto his back out of habit, and the pain was enough to make him pass out again. His mind made staggered attempts to grasp reality like a drunk attempting to climb a hill and always tipping back. Once, he saw the rod’s empty gaze. Once, he saw his father’s. Mostly, he saw candles, bright and hot and hot and bright and hot.

“Marik.” The shadows were speaking again. Something tried to take the rod, twisted his wrist when he didn’t release. Marik gasped, laughed. The rod clanged against the stone, and his body chilled with the onset of fever.

“Master Marik, please,” the voice choked out. It wasn’t a shadow. A familiar, calloused hand gripped his; another touched his face.

It was Odion.

Marik grabbed at his brother, latched onto his robe and dragged himself into a sitting position even though he moaned with pain. Odion clutched him tightly, held him even closer than the day Marik had said he’d rather die than be a tombkeeper.

“You’re safe now,” Odion croaked.

Marik looked at his father’s motionless body, at the blood-streaked wall above it. He looked at his father’s eyes. He tried to speak and couldn’t.

He fell into darkness again.

The next time he woke, he was aboveground. He saw the sun against the horizon; breathed the dry, baked air; touched his fingers to sand and sage. Everything belowground had been hard and cold; everything above was soft and searing.

And Marik hated it.

It was less than a week before he tried to run. Barefoot in the desert didn’t get him far, but the pain in his back brought him down long before the pain in his feet. Odion found him and carried him to camp even though his own back was still healing as much as Marik’s. He never spoke about the pain, and even though Marik knew he’d seen the murder, he never spoke about it either.

Marik hated him. He punched him once, bruised Odion’s jaw and his own hand, but Odion apologized like he’d been the one responsible. Marik commanded him to leave, screamed at him to, but he never did.

The Khouri clansmen all stared when they thought Marik didn’t notice. Word had arrived that Ahmed Ishtar was dead. Marik Ishtar was now head of the Ishtar clan and all four clans that served under it. And Marik Ishtar was insane. They all thought it.

Maybe they even suspected the worse truth:

Marik Ishtar was a murderer.

Fourteen days after the initiation, Marik tried to kill himself with the dagger in the rod. Once again, Odion saved him, wrestling the artifact away even though handling it was dangerous for anyone other than its chosen user. It could have killed him; Odion took it anyway, like the damn martyr he was. Marik fought to retrieve it. Since Odion was almost twice his age and more than twice his size, he resorted to the lowest, most desperate tactics he could, but even after drawing blood with his teeth, Odion still held him off until he finally dragged Marik to the center pole of the tent and tied him to it.

They were both crying.

And Odion just.

Kept.

Apologizing.

That was when Shadi came.

He offered Odion a deal: He would use the Millennium Scales to balance Marik’s guilt with Odion’s innocence. Marik would remember his father’s murder but forget himself as the culprit. Odion would remember Marik as the culprit but bear the guilt of the murder as if he’d committed it himself.

“There is, of course, a warning,” Shadi said, “that balance is delicate and that forcibly tipped scales may end up worse than they began.”

It was the worst deal imaginable. Marik ordered Odion not to take it. Begged him not to.

But he did. 

And four years later, when Odion was struck by a god, the balance broke.

++++++++++

Every eye turned to the viewing platform. For her part, Yori was immediately ready to fight, but she wasn’t ready for what she saw.

Marik was slumped against the railing, one arm hooked over it, barely holding himself up. His other hand clutched his head. And as they watched, his face protruded out, half of it splitting in an awful, twisted grin below one bloodshot eye.

“What’s happening?” Serenity squeaked. Duke pulled her closer to him.

Yuugi appeared in spirit form next to Yori, his eyes dark and worried.

“Do you _feel_ it?” he said urgently.

She did; her bracelet was nearly vibrating against her skin. Yami had a hand on his puzzle as if he felt the same unseen current of power. They exchanged a glance.

Marik screamed again. The rod in his hand flashed gold. That terrible grin overtook his entire face, and his tongue lolled out from between his teeth. He released the rail and gripped the rod.

“I am reborn,” he hissed, and though his voice was quiet, it pierced the distance between them.

Marik slowly raised the rod toward Yami, like an archer taking aim. Yori tensed. Then he smiled and lowered it. Without a word, he turned and left the rooftop.

“Wha’ just happened?” Joey finally said, voicing what they all probably thought.

“Let’s get Odion to a doctor,” Yori said. But her skin crawled with the afterimage of Marik.


	13. Once Bitten

“I’m fine, doctor,” Yami insisted. “I assure you.”

The onboard doctor gave an unconvinced hum and continued checking the long-dead-pharaoh’s vitals, which was ironic now that Yori had enough distance from the lightning scare not to be panicking.

In an uncommonly stern voice, Yuugi said, “Yami, you were struck by lightning.”

“Holographic lightning, technically,” Yori said. “But it still looked like it hurt.”

The doctor glanced up with a slight frown before reaching for a stethoscope.

“Yori, I’m not here,” Yuugi reminded her. “Don’t respond to me.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “The nice doctor doesn’t mind if I talk to spirits, does he?”

“Do whatever you’d like,” the doctor said without missing a beat. “I’m not a psychiatrist.” Then, to Yami, “Take a deep breath for me.”

Yami obeyed, and after several breaths, the doctor declared that he had the lungs of a prize fighter.

Yami chuckled. “I’ll take that to mean I’m prime tournament material.”

“And congratulations on advancing to the next round of finals.” The doctor made a note on his clipboard, then fastened a blood pressure cuff around Yami’s bicep.

As the air hissed, Yami opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “How’s Odion?”

“In his grave compared to you,” the doctor said mildly. “I’m not sure your adrenal glands even registered you had a normal duel, much less a strenuous one.”

Yami turned his palms up with a small smile. “Strange happenings.”

The doctor shook his head, made another note, and removed the cuff. “You’re cleared to go. If you’d like to check on the other contestant, I’ll have Fuyumi take you.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Yami stood, and the doctor’s assistant gestured toward the door.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Yuugi said, to which Yami nodded. Just as Yuugi disappeared, a new head poked through a curtained divider.

“Anzu,” Yori said in surprise.

The girl shifted nervously, curtain fisted in her hand. She motioned them over.

“I heard—um.” She lifted a hand like she was about to touch Yami’s shoulder, then stopped. “I’m glad you’re okay. You should know . . .”

She pulled the curtain back slightly, allowing them to enter the divided area of the room. It was barely large enough for a bed, sink counter, and two chairs.

Ryou was the bed’s occupant. Yori’s heart sank to her ankles.

“He’ll be okay,” Anzu hurried to add. “He just tried to pick a fight while dehydrated.”

She looked to Fuyumi for confirmation, who nodded.

As if Ryou would ever pick a fight with anyone. Between his duel and whatever else had happened, the spirit must have worn his body ragged. And Yori hadn’t done a thing to stop it.

“You check on the Ghoul.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “I’m staying with Ryou.”

Yami touched her hand, so fleeting she almost missed it. Then he followed Fuyumi back to the door.

Anzu had stayed behind as well, and she pulled the second chair next to the one she must have occupied earlier. Because it was a nice gesture, Yori sat beside her, even though her nervous energy wanted her to pace.

Ryou was paler than normal, and his hair had the matted look of not-quite-dry. Yori tried reaching out to him with the bracelet, but neither he nor the spirit answered back. At least it didn’t come with the pain she’d experienced trying to contact Yami while he was unconscious.

“It happened just before the duel,” Anzu said.

Yori nodded. She didn’t ask for details; Anzu wouldn’t know the truth anyway.

“Speaking of the duel . . .”

She left it hanging, likely waiting for Yori to explain what had happened to Yami. But it was a long story, and Yori wasn’t in the mood to revisit it. So she let the silence speak.

“He really will be okay.” Anzu smiled gently. “He just needs rest.”

What he needed was to be rid of his demonic possession, but Yori couldn’t force the matter when Ryou insisted he wanted to handle it himself.

Yori sighed, rubbing her eyes. “People are frustrating.”

Anzu snorted. “Especially boys.”

“Especially boys,” Yori agreed.

She scooted forward in the chair, leaned back, and tilted her eyes up. The fluorescent lights had been dimmed, and shadows pooled along the curtain track in the ceiling. It had to be late at night already, and there were two more duels still to go. Yori would be in one of them, and her opponent could only be one of three people. Maybe she would have a friendly spar with Joey. Maybe she would trade insults across the field with Ishizu.

Or maybe.

She would fight Marik.

“Actually . . .” Anzu’s voice had risen in pitch, though she tried to sound casual. “Since you’re here, maybe I could get some . . . advice. About, um, boys.”

Yori snorted. “There’s a dumb idea.”

When she straightened in her chair and saw Anzu’s expression, she realized her mistake.

“Sorry, asking for advice isn’t dumb. It’s me giving it that’s dumb. I have the worst track record.” Funny how people kept coming to her anyway: first Jiro and now Anzu.

“Oh.” Anzu crossed her legs and shrugged. “That’s funny because I think Yami’s pretty great. A little dramatic sometimes, but—”

Yori raised a hand, stopping her short. Anzu smiled.

“It’s hard not to notice,” she said in a stage whisper. “I mean, you held hands a minute ago.”

“We didn’t—” Yori scowled and changed the subject. “What advice?”

Anzu scooted forward in her chair, leaning close and lowering her voice. “Okay, so you know that feeling when you’re spending time with a boy—nothing romantic at all, absolutely _at all,_ just normal, non-romantic time studying or something—but you know your family’s going to see him eventually, and you know they won’t approve and they’ll make a huge deal out of it even though it’s completely fine?”

Yori blinked. Then blinked again. “. . . I can honestly say I have no idea. Again, maybe I’m not the best person for this.”

In fact, no one smart ever turned to her for advice about anything. Asking someone for advice meant they did something worth admiring.

Not Yori’s forte.

“Oh.” Anzu looked down, tugged at the edge of her mini-skirt. “I just thought . . . You’re just so good with people.”

Yori’s eyebrows rose. “You mean, like . . . intimidating them or getting money?” She laughed. “Are you taking Tristan home to your parents?”

“No, I’m not taking anyone . . .” Anzu sighed. “I just think there’s been a big misunderstanding, and I want everyone to give him a chance, but I don’t know how to even bring it up without people freaking out. You’re good at, you know . . . saying things how they are and not backing down.”

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about. What misunderstanding?”

Anzu tucked her hair behind her ears, refusing to meet Yori’s eyes. “He’s not . . . good, exactly. But he’s not as bad as we thought.”

“Duke?”

“No, he’s not . . . I mean, Duke’s . . .”

“Ryou?” Had she caught on to the spirit’s possession?

“No, Ryou’s great—”

“Anzu, spit it out!”

“Marik.”

The silence stretched, and then Yori laughed again because it had to be a joke.

But Anzu didn’t.

“Marik?” Yori repeated. _“Marik_ is the misunderstanding? _Marik_ is ‘not as bad as we thought’?”

“I know he doesn’t seem—”

“How’s your hand, Anzu?” Yori thumped the brace with her middle finger, making Anzu wince. “How’s your head?”

“Okay, I came to you for advice!” Anzu stood, her chair sliding back an inch under the force of her movement. Fire snapped in her eyes. “I knew Joey would be bad, but I didn’t realize you would be—”

“Sure, we’re the bad ones.” Yori narrowed her eyes. “Did you know Marik almost killed Seto today? Chained him to an anchor and dropped him in the ocean. But hey, maybe there was a _misunderstanding.”_

Anzu struggled for words. Yori had no such trouble.

“You know who else was attached to that anchor? Mokuba. He’s a kid, Anzu. A sweet kid who couldn’t hurt anyone if he tried. Marik almost killed him. He’s been trying to do the same or worse to Yami since before the tournament even started.”

 _“That’s_ the misunderstanding,” she burst out. “Marik thinks—”

“I don’t care what Marik thinks. I. Could. Not. Care. Less.” Yori stood and pointed at Ryou, still unconscious on the bed. “I didn’t ask for details, but I’d bet a hundred bucks this is Marik’s fault, too.”

“It isn’t.” Anzu set her jaw. “Ryou attacked _him.”_

“Well, good for him”—spirit though it may have been—“because Marik tried to kill Ryou today, too. He set him against Yuugi in a death match. One that almost cost me my legs, thanks for asking. Do you see the pattern here?”

Anzu swallowed. “I know. I get it. But there’s also—”

“I don’t think you get it at all if you’re still defending him. I don’t care what you’ve seen him do or heard him say that makes you think he’s not _that_ bad. That’s all part of the act for guys like Marik, and once you fall for it, they’ll stab you in the back. Trust me.”

In her mind, a set of gold eyes winked, and she heard the echo of Haku’s laugh, of her own scream. Even with the warmth of Yami’s jacket, goosebumps rose on her arms.

Anzu looked away and muttered, “Well, so much for you not having any advice.”

“It’s not advice; it’s fact. Here’s my advice: Stay away from him.”

“I dug my own grave here.” Anzu carefully set a water bottle and a half-empty sleeve of crackers on the counter beside Ryou’s bed. “So I’m just gonna go.”

“I’m serious, Anzu. Stay away.”

“I heard you, Yori. And I’m done getting chewed out after I tried to avoid it, so goodnight.”

She ducked through the curtain and disappeared. Yori was too wound up to sit, so she shoved both chairs against the wall and paced. She could only hope hers was the next duel and that Marik was her opponent. She wanted to face him more than ever.

Of course, she didn’t need to wait for the duel. He couldn’t avoid her now that they were trapped on the same blimp.

Before she could rethink it, her switchblade was in her hand.

“It’s the pharaoh’s destiny to defeat him, not yours.”

Yori turned to find Shadi standing at the foot of Ryou’s bed. “I thought you didn’t go in for destiny. I thought that’s the whole reason I’m alive.”

He tilted his head slightly, acknowledged. “There are some times I do not, and there are some times I do. If you fight Marik, everything that is already bad will grow worse; of that, I am certain. It is why I have come to warn you.”

“Thanks a heap.” Yori resumed pacing. As she reached the wall, she shook her head. “You know, if you really wanted . . .”

Her voice trailed into silence because when she looked back, Shadi was gone. So much for that. But she put her switchblade away, and she didn’t hunt Marik down. Instead, she touched Ryou’s shoulder.

“Wake up soon, okay?” She swallowed.

Then she kept pacing.

++++++++++

Sometimes it was disappointing, the lack of creativity among the shadows. The spirit of the ring knew them well after living amongst them for thousands of years. In those years, they’d exhausted all their voices to his ears. He feared neither their power nor their punishments, and he had learned all their rules. So it was no surprise that after his ghostly shadow game with Kaiba, his punishment should be indulging the ghosts of his own past.

All one hundred and twenty-seven of them.

It was the impersonal first, the ones he’d barely known in life and not by name. A man with a beard. A girl with a scar. He watched them die by the spear, felt their pain firsthand, but it was only their pain, distant and tingly. The spirit cackled as the sting faded. Next came the acquaintances, the ones he’d known by necessity but not by emotion. The old woman who kept a basket of scorpions. The ornery man who crafted odorless poisons. They were trampled by hooves, impaled on knives, and the spirit felt his own bones crack, his own skin split. It was close and ugly, but the spirit still laughed.

Last came the family. Menes, who taught him to set lures, who gave him his first blade. Hepsut, who fed him each time he ran away from home and listened to him swear up and down that he would never return only to convince him back to his parents by morning.

Bo, his best friend.

His father.

His mother.

This pain was raw. Burning. And it was not entirely theirs; the screams were half his, as much the pain of mourning as of death.

And it wasn’t that it _wasn’t_ torture. He was simply disappointed at the lack of creativity. After all, he’d tortured himself in much the same way in both life and death. Perhaps not with such vivid colors, but old news nonetheless.

He bared his teeth at the shadows, gave them his best cackle to show what he thought of their _power._ He rode their little punishment out to the end, at which point he exited the ride, raised his arms to the dark, and said, “How about another go? You tossers didn’t even get me dizzy!”

However, the self-indulgent smirk died on his lips as he heard a scream that wasn’t his, either personally or in memory.

And the shadows told him of their deal with Ryou Bakura.

Ryou didn’t have much in terms of ghosts in his past.

Just a mother.

Just a sister.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

The spirit sat on his cushioned throne and listened to the kid’s high-pitched, wrenching screams, the ones that sounded like the shadows were breaking his spine one slow disc at a time.

Ryou never laughed at the shadows.

No.

In between his screams—

—he sobbed.

“I didn’t ask for his help,” the spirit snarled into the dark. “You can’t accept something to help me when I don’t want it. I didn’t give permission.”

The shadows didn’t answer, of course. Only one person’s permission was needed for the shadows to work; it was the reason clueless opponents fell victim to shadow games. The spirit had taken gleeful advantage of the system plenty of times in the past.

He couldn’t cancel someone else’s deal, couldn’t interfere.

So he just waited until the screams and the tears faded into silence.

When the shadows finally retreated, the spirit sat next to Ryou. The boy turned away, rested his head on his knees.

It could have been days in the real world they sat like that. Who knew.

The spirit wanted to believe the kid had only done it to get his life back. To get some kind of control. He wanted to believe in selfish reasons because selfish reasons didn’t require anything from him in return.

He knew better.

So in the end, he said, “Nakhti.”

Ryou didn’t move. Then his back rose in a long, slow breath.

“What?” he murmured, voice barely audible.

“It’s my name,” the spirit said. “Nakhti.”

Ryou turned his head, met the spirit’s eyes. A faint smile crossed his face.

“Now get out.” The spirit stood.

Ryou climbed to his feet and started for the door.

“Not that way.”

He turned, frowned.

The spirit gestured above them. “Out there. Get out.”

That faint smile returned.

And then Ryou was gone.

The spirit sighed, reclining against his throne. No matter how he mocked it, his mind and soul ached from the shadow torture, and he’d just voluntarily set his plans back an indeterminate amount of time. The items would only be all together on the blimp for a short window.

But he’d sort it out later. Once the echoes of Ryou’s screams didn’t feel so fresh.

++++++++++

When Yami entered Odion’s room, he nearly hit Tristan with the door. Luckily, the other boy stuck a hand out to stop it.

“It’s packed in here,” Tristan said. The improvised care room barely had space for the gurney and IV stand much less the five people crowded around them—six with the addition of Yami. Apparently, the real medical bay wasn’t equipped for more than one patient at a time, so the staff had had to make do. “You doing alright, man?”

“I’m fine.” Yami turned sideways to sneak through the opening so Tristan could close the door and clear some breathing room again. “How’s he?”

Tristan shrugged. “Nurse didn’t know what to call it. Something like he’s got the pain responses and dilation and whatnot, so it’s not a coma, but he’s not waking up either.”

“More than likely, he’s with Osiris,” Yami said.

Duke frowned, joining the conversation. “His god card?”

Yami shook his head. “The god himself.”

“Why not?” Tristan snorted. “Honestly, nothing sounds weird anymore.”

“Sounds plenty weird to me,” Duke said.

Serenity scooted close to Duke so Yami could step forward to the bed. Odion looked anything but restful in his unconsciousness; creases marked his tattooed face, and his forehead was dotted with sweat.

“I don’t like any Ghoul,” Joey said from his place at Yami’s shoulder, “but it ain’t right that Marik just walked away—like, what, this guy ain’t a useful pawn no more, so Marik could care less?”

Yami thought back to Marik’s scream, to the surge of shadow power he’d felt.

“I think it may be more complicated than that,” he said quietly.

“Or maybe it ain’t.” Joey shook his head, a dark look in his eyes. “You seen one gang leader, you seen ’em all. Tell you what—I hope I’m duelin’ next, and I hope I get to cut that creep down to size.”

No one said anything after that until a minute or two had passed in silence. Then Mai heaved a sigh.

“What a dark crowd are we,” she said, “and doing no one good by standing. Go, be out. I will stay.”

Joey frowned. “I get the going thing, but why are you gonna—”

“Never question a set woman, mon cher. Only say, ‘Oui, mademoiselle, you are right.’”

“Oui, mademoiselle, you’re right,” Tristan said, grinning as he opened the door.

“There.” Mai pointed. “Tristan is a smart man. He will go far.”

Joey scowled. “I don’t get it.”

His sister giggled as she and Duke followed Tristan out the door. Mai waved a hand at Joey like brushing crumbs off a table, to which he said, “I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” and made his exit.

Yami lingered a moment more, watching the slight tremors in Odion’s hands where they rested on the sheets.

“A god, you say?” Mai raised an eyebrow.

Yami smiled faintly. “Would you believe it?”

“I work a cruise liner, mon cher; I hear and believe many things.”

“In that case, oui, mademoiselle, a god.”

“Oh, your accent is not bad. You should learn.” She smiled. “You noticed, of course, the way he dueled.”

“I noticed. Hopefully Osiris did, too. True honor is a rare thing.” It was unnerving how little Yami knew of his own religion. According to tradition, he was as much a part of it as Osiris. He was Ra on Earth. The high priest of every temple.

 _“Maintain ma’at,”_ Osiris had said before disappearing.

If only Yami knew what it meant.

“Nonsense,” Mai said. “There are two honorable men in this room alone.”

Yami blinked himself back to reality, and then he gave an embarrassed chuckle. He didn’t bother arguing; he simply asked her to let him know when Odion awoke. Maybe they could have a conversation as people rather than enemies, especially if Marik wasn’t lurking.

When he stepped into the hallway, his group of friends was nearly at the corner.

“Headin’ to the lounge,” Joey called back. “You comin’?”

Yori was nowhere to be seen. He waved for them to continue without him.

When he re-entered Ryou’s care area, he found Yori with an awake-and-alert Ryou.

//Ryou’s awake,// he said as soon as he registered it.

Yuugi appeared instantly and sagged in relief. He didn’t need to ask; Yami surrendered control.

“Ryou, are you okay? I was so worried!” Yuugi jumped on the end of Ryou’s bed, tucking his knees up as Ryou laughed.

“I’m alright, mate. I could really use a full English, though, or a big steak.”

Yami traded smiles with Yori, and as the two boys continued to talk, she edged her way closer to him.

“Still feeling okay?” she asked.

“I feel fine,” he said seriously, “but I think something may have happened to my hair. Has it always stood on end like this or was that the lightning?”

She laughed.

It was such a strange thing; whenever he was around her, he wanted to do anything to hear that laugh. He didn’t consider himself a lighthearted person; it was one of the biggest differences between himself and Yuugi. And he certainly didn’t possess Joey’s goofiness. But around Yori, sometimes he felt like a new version of himself. Maybe a better version of himself.

One who believed in the future.

“I’d like to speak with you privately,” he said, “when we have a chance.”

“Don’t sound so serious; I’ll worry it’s about the fate of the world.” She smiled, but it was strained. “Shadi stopped by earlier with warnings and all that jazz.”

“Shadi?” Yuugi perked up, turning his head. His eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. Ryou leaned around him, obviously curious.

“It’s nothing,” Yori said. “If I think about anything he’s told me too much, my mind will probably shut down, so I’ll just take things day-at-a-time like I always do.”

Yuugi nodded, though he was still frowning to himself.

Maybe that was the wisest choice. One thing was sure—over-worrying had never gotten Yami anywhere good in the past.

After getting the doctor’s permission to leave, Ryou joined the others in the lounge. Yuugi walked with him to the lounge entrance, then traded places with Yami once more. Yami offered to wait, but he was relieved when Yuugi insisted things were fine as long as he knew Ryou was okay. He returned to the puzzle, and then it was just Yami and Yori.

Alone.


	14. Soul

“So. My room or yours?” Yori asked.

For some reason, Yami’s heart flipped at the question.

She raised an eyebrow. “You wanted to talk privately, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mine. Is fine. Or yours.”

He suddenly had a hard time swallowing. It had never been a hard action for him in the past, but the more he thought about it, the more he found himself incapable.

Yori didn’t seem to notice. She led the way to his room, him trying to remember how to swallow all the way there and then trying to remember which way his key card scanned to let them in.

When the door slid closed behind them, his ears rang in the silence.

Yori stood next to the bed. Eyes on him. Waiting.

And in addition to forgetting how to swallow, he forgot how to talk.

“It really _is_ about the fate of the world, isn’t it?” she said after too much silence. She slid her hands into her pockets, thumbs out and palms turned to show she was teasing. She’d done that so many times while they talked in the game shop; he’d never seen her do it around anyone else.

That was enough.

He crossed the room to her, stood so close he could feel her heat. She blinked but didn’t pull back, so he reached for her hands, gently eased them from her pockets. His fingers tingled where they overlapped with hers.

And she didn’t pull back then either.

“After the lightning,” he said quietly, “I had this . . . vision.”

She nodded. Waited.

“Trapped in a maze. Saw a god. It’s a long story.” He tried for a smile and breathed through it in a way that was almost a laugh. “But he showed me something from my past.”

Her eyes widened. Her irises were darker around the edges, almost a second color. Did every girl have eyes like that or just her? He’d never cared to look.

“That’s big,” she whispered.

“It was small, actually.” His smile softened. He looked down at their hands. “Barely a moment.”

Before heading to the finals, he’d stood on the roof of a skyscraper and looked out over Domino, wondering if he’d ever stood and looked out at Egypt the same way. Now he knew he had. He’d probably done so countless times after becoming pharaoh, but in the moment Osiris had shown him, he hadn’t been a pharaoh yet. Instead, he’d stood next to one—his father.

His father was tall. Yami couldn’t tell if it was objective truth or simply his perspective as a child, but it didn’t matter. His father was tall. And his gentle, weathered smile beamed from the palace balcony to the crowds below the same way the sun beamed down from the sky, showing for a frozen moment how he truly embodied the power of Ra.

That was it. If he concentrated, there were other details—colors, edges. But everything that mattered most he’d gained in the instant of living it. Regardless of who Yami may have been as pharaoh, he’d respected and admired the pharaoh who came before him. His father. He’d loved him. And even though that one moment of family connection was barely a drop of honey to fill an empty hive, it did fill something, some small hole.

“It was addicting,” he admitted, meeting Yori’s eyes once more. “Seeing my father made me wish to see my mother; seeing one moment made me wish to see them all. Osiris was already gone when it ended, but I would have tried to call him back, tried anything to see more.”

Yori frowned. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head. Squeezed her hands. “Because I heard you calling me to come back.”

Her face pinked, and she didn’t deny it, which set his heart racing. Part of him had thought he might have imagined her voice.

“I thought maybe the lightning . . .” She swallowed. “Maybe you were gone forever. And I couldn’t . . .”

“I’m glad,” he whispered.

During Yori’s first duel in Battle City, her opponent had mistaken the two of them for a couple, and Yori had been quick to correct the boy that they were just friends. It was true, so Yami hadn’t been able to understand why the interaction had twisted his stomach in knots or why it had gnawed at him long after he walked away. Now he did.

Maybe what they had was just friendship.

But he wanted more.

He closed the breath of distance between them, tilted his head, brought his lips to hers. And in that bare instant, he was terrified—terrified she’d stop him short, tell him he’d made a mistake, tell him . . .

But she didn’t. She slid her arms around his neck and let him hold her.

And she kissed him back.

She was music in the park and ice cream on his tongue; she was all the secrets of living he’d never known. She was the vibrancy of it. The reason in it. She meant more to him than his lost past; she was the horizon of his future—one he might never realize and possibly didn’t deserve but one he would sacrifice everything for nonetheless.

So he kissed her until she was his air and sound and all he could see with his eyes closed. He kissed her until she filled his every sense and all his senses were gone. He kissed her until he was certain she was all he’d been missing and all he never wanted to miss again.

And with all of that raw, aching _life_ in his heart, he kissed her again.

++++++++++

“Don’t tell her what to do” was the theme for Anzu in her home. According to her parents, she’d been harder to raise than both boys because as soon as she had begun to understand language, she’d made it her personal quest to do everything she was told not to do, whether that was climbing the bookcase or sticking her hand on something hot—she had a small scar on her thumb to prove the latter.

It wasn’t that Anzu meant to be a rebel or that she didn’t trust her parents. In fact, she couldn’t explain _what_ drove her to chase the forbidden. When she’d lied about her age and taken on a part-time job before she was allowed to, she’d told Yuugi it was to save up money for an after-school dance program. In truth, her parents would have paid for the program if she’d just asked. When she’d taken a failing grade in her PE class rather than participate in track exercises, she’d told the coach she was standing up for all the kids who were forced to participate and then made fun of for being out of shape. In truth, the action didn’t affect anyone but herself. Anzu wanted to move to America after high school to dance on Broadway, but that hadn’t been her goal until another girl in class told her she _couldn’t._

Anzu had big dreams, dreams about being noticed, dreams about making a difference, and whenever someone put up a fence that said “do not cross,” no matter how small or insignificant the fence was, she had to jump it—because maybe on the other side, she would find what she was looking for.

So she knocked on Marik’s door, the now-familiar action more determined than ever after her conversation with Yori. And when the door slid aside, she ducked into his room without a thought, just as she’d done before.

He closed the door this time; ironic that he only did so after she’d decided to stop hiding.

“We need to get some things straight,” she started.

She didn’t finish.

Because she finally looked at him. Really looked.

Marik stared back at her with a smirk that seemed to crack his cheeks. He had one elbow braced on the closed door, the rod in his hand, gold eye glowing on his forehead. He’d traded his loose, hooded shirt for a sleeveless black number so tight it was either an undershirt or the top half of a dance leotard. His eyes were open just a bit too wide to be natural, and they were so bloodshot he may have burst a vessel.

Anzu tensed. “Are you okay?”

“Funny.” He bared his teeth as he spoke. “With poor Odion down, I thought there was no one left who cared.”

His voice was ragged, sandpapered at the edges, and when he shouldered away from the door, his weight sagged into his left side.

Anzu’s first instinct was to reach for him. Her second was to run. Since she felt both at the same time, she didn’t move.

“Odion was unreachable,” he murmured. “People, people. But there’s just so much _energy._ You can’t imagine. You can’t understand.”

He smiled.

Normally, his smile was his most endearing feature.

But this smile was empty of Marik.

Anzu darted behind the table just as he attacked. He rammed into the metal chair; it only made him grin. She ran for the door, but he lunged forward and caught her wrist.

“Come now, let’s play a game!” He cackled.

With the table in the way, Anzu couldn’t kick him, and her free hand was almost useless in the brace.

“Let me go!” It might have sounded more commanding if her voice didn’t break.

He lifted the rod to his mouth, bit the shaft with his teeth. It pulled free like a sheath, and the exposed under-layer of the item was flat and sharpened. A needled blade.

Anzu screamed—

—and Marik grunted like she’d managed to kick him after all. He spat the end of the rod out. It glanced off the table, hit the floor. Half of his face screwed up in a grimace; the other half widened in panic.

He looked inhuman.

He looked possessed.

“Run,” he panted.

Then he swung the rod.

Anzu flinched away, but he wasn’t aiming for her. The blade slashed across his own forearm, just below his elbow. He released her and stumbled back, howling in pain.

Anzu ran. She slammed the door-release button and shoved herself through the opening before it was even wide enough, scraping her arms and chest. She didn’t stop running.

Fading behind her came Marik’s piercing cackle.

++++++++++

Sitting at a bar of any kind was never comfortable for Joey. It didn’t matter if it was something so innocent as an ice cream bar; he just hated the name and all the sour associations. But the tables in the lounge were being cleaned, so he sat at the bar.

Of course, he could have just taken a table and moved if needed. He didn’t know which ones had already been cleaned—maybe he wouldn’t have needed to move at all. The problem was not so much the tables being cleaned as it was the maid cleaning them: the same maid who’d given him his Battle City shirt. The same one who’d already seen him make a fool of himself. One embarrassment was enough for the night, especially with a girl who looked like she should have been walking a runway instead of wiping a table.

So he sat at the bar and gave Dice-boy side eyes while he and Serenity flipped through songs on the karaoke machine. Tristan sat next to Joey and gave _him_ side eyes, glancing a few times at the maid.

“You struck out that hard?” he asked with a stupid smirk.

“Excuse me, mister”—Joey ignored the blockhead at his side and spoke to the bartender—“got any lucky drinks for finalists? I’m duelin’ next. I can feel it in my bones.”

The bartender smiled. “How about a Ramune? If you swallow the marble, you’ll lose the match.”

Joey blanched. “Wait, I thought it ain’t possible to swallow the marble!”

Tristan smacked him on the back, laughing. “That’s the joke, you idiot. I’ll have a lychee.”

The bartender’s smile widened, but he was gracious enough not to laugh. Joey scowled and asked for grape. With a nod, the man disappeared into what must have been the kitchen.

Joey sneaked a glance at the maid. She brushed her fingers across the back of a chair as she stepped around it, and something about the movement was like she was gliding. The cloth in her hand traced circles and loops on the tabletop rather than scrubbing up and down. She made _cleaning_ look elegant.

Joey’s ears burned.

“Dude, just ask her,” Tristan said.

“Ask her what?” Joey grumbled.

“Whatever it is you want to ask. Do you know her name yet?”

“I got a duel to focus on.”

She worked at KaibaCorp; she was definitely older than him, even if she didn’t look it, and a million spoons out of his league regardless.

The bartender returned, carrying a silver tray. With a flourish that was both over-the-top and awesome, he flipped the first Ramune bottle over the back of his hand and set it in front of Tristan. Tristan saluted. The bartender did the same flourish with Joey’s drink and then used another flashy gesture to produce a maccha Kit Kat from his apron pocket, which he set beside Joey’s bottle.

 _“Kitto katsu!”_ he said, clenching his fist in a victory pose. _Surely win._ It was something Joey said to himself in the mirror during rough patches and exams. But no one had ever said it to him before.

Joey grinned as his throat got a little tight. “Thanks, man. I will!”

“And I’ll drink to that.” Tristan popped the marble down, lifted his soda, and drained half of it.

Joey ripped the plastic topper and popped his own marble from the opening. But just as he took a swig, the maid stepped up to the bar beside him, graceful and silent as a ghost.

He immediately choked and whipped away, fighting to keep the liquid from bursting out of his mouth or worse. Eyes burning, he forced himself to swallow past the carbonation and then doubled over, coughing.

“Is he alright?” he heard her ask.

And then her hand was on his back. It had to be her hand because it was small and gentle; Tristan would have smacked him.

Joey jumped like a cat, nearly abandoning his own skin. He would have knocked over his barstool if it had been normal. Since it was bolted down, he tripped over it and barreled into Tristan, who only managed to keep them both upright by grabbing the edge of the bar.

After a moment to breathe, Tristan shoved him back into his seat, and Joey had no choice but to look _right at her_ and say, “I’m fine” even while his eyes and nose were leaking and his face was hotter than a hibachi.

Her eyebrows drew down; her mouth puckered. He was probably the worst excuse for a person she’d ever seen. Then she shifted her apron aside and felt in the pocket of her uniform.

Maybe she was looking for mace.

Maybe she kept a special knife in her pocket just for stabbing idiots.

In the end, it wasn’t either. It was a white handkerchief, and she held it out to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joey suddenly didn’t know what century he was in. He felt a little like he was in a dream where he’d left his pants at home, only instead of pants, it was his suit of armor. But even while his brain was all twisted, his take-what-you’re-handed reflex kicked in, and the handkerchief was in his palm before he realized it.

“I’m sorry I startled you, Joey,” the maid said. She touched his shoulder gently, like she was steadying him in his seat, and then while he gaped like a fish on land, she handed her cleaning cloth over to the bartender, told him she was starting the next rotation, and left the lounge.

Joey looked down at the folded handkerchief in his hand. It was way too soft to ever wipe anything gross on. Probably expensive, too. And the fact that she carried one at all meant she was from a completely different world than him; he just wasn’t sure if that was planet Past Century or planet Rich and Famous.

He had his suspicions, though.

“Duuude.” Tristan shook his head, finishing his soda in a quick gulp. “Well, now I really am the last of the pack. The only lone wolf without a girl.”

“She ain’t—”

“She remembered your name _and_ she gave you what is trademarked in the business as a Token of Affection.”

Joey’s stupid heart beat faster for no reason. “I never told her my name. It’s probably just that employees gotta know the finalists. Good service and all.”

He downed the rest of his soda even though his face was still burning. He slipped the Kit Kat into his pocket because he couldn’t eat it until he won. That was the good luck part.

The handkerchief he didn’t know what to do with, so he just stuffed it in his pocket, too.

“Excuse me, barkeep!” Tristan raised himself on his stool and shot a hand in the air like they were in class. “Do you know all the finalists’ names?”

The bartender looked a bit sheepish. “Just Mr. Kaiba’s, I’m afraid.”

“Gee, darn.” Tristan dropped back into his seat, looking pointedly at Joey.

Joey shoved him in the arm. Tristan shoved back.

“Just go talk to her, man.”

Joey scowled. “Why’re you so hung up on this? I’m here to duel, not—”

“Because I should have talked to Serenity.” Tristan’s voice lowered, and he swallowed, glancing at the karaoke stage where Serenity and Duke were off-key harmonizing to any English song they found. “You’re my best friend, Joey. That’s why I thought I’d just sit back, let you guys have the tournament before I got involved, but . . . I really liked her. So I should’ve said something.”

He tilted his empty soda bottle back and forth, letting the marble roll in its track from one edge to the other.

For Joey’s part, he tried to be considerate and not explode with his first response, which was that he wanted _all men everywhere_ to stop looking at his sister.

In the end, he sighed. “I’da preferred if it was you.”

Tristan gave a faint laugh. “Yeah?”

“But I’da more preferred if it was no one.”

Wincing, Tristan slapped a hand to his heart, but he was smiling, too.

Joey had really lucked out with his friends. He was grateful for it every day.

Just as he had the thought, Ryou arrived in the lounge, a bit flushed but apparently out of his creepy mood. He took a seat at the bar with them and asked for food, which the bartender happily delivered. Serenity apparently wanted a better chance to meet him, so she dragged Duke over, and it wasn’t long before the three of them were talking about best tabletop games, with Duke and Ryou doing most of the talking and Serenity saying she wanted to try absolutely everything.

“Not that one!” Joey’s eyes widened as Ryou suggested an occult RPG that required a Ouija board to play.

Ryou’s ears turned red. “It’s not for everyone,” he hurried to say.

Serenity giggled. “So you like horror?”

Which got Ryou going again. He barely got any food eaten with all the talking, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Tristan and Joey both asked for another round of sodas, and after the second bottles were empty and the tabletop talk had gone on for quite a while, Joey lowered his voice and said, “Look, I get another chance, I’ll ask for her name, okay?”

Tristan grinned. “You’ll have to return her handkerchief, too.”

“What?” Joey frowned. “Then what was the point of givin’ it to me?”

“You’re supposed to use it, wash it, and give it back. That’s how it works. Trust me, I’m an expert on—”

“No.” Joey jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t say the ‘expert on women’ thing. Last time I trusted the ‘expert on women’ thing, we cleaned locker gum for a week. I ain’t riskin’ any bad luck at this tournament.”

Tristan held up his hands, leaning back.

Joey dug the super-soft handkerchief out of his pocket and looked at it. “KvS” had been sewn in the corner with light green thread. Mint. Like her eyes.

“Use it, wash it, give it back. You’re sure?”

Tristan nodded sagely. “I would never steer you wrong, my friend. I am an expert on women.”

Joey didn’t have a chance to respond because just then, Anzu came bursting into the room. He would have been happy to see her except she looked _terrified._ He and Tristan were on their feet immediately and at her side almost as fast.

“What happened?” Joey demanded, shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket.

Tristan had his eyes on the entrance. “Who do I punch?”

Anzu just shook her head. She swiped at her eyes, glancing over her shoulder. There was no one chasing her, and she didn’t seem to be hurt, so after a few seconds, everyone relaxed a bit. Joey led her to the bar stool next to Ryou, and he stood next to Serenity.

“What happened?” he asked again.

“N-nothing.” She kept shaking her head. “I don’t—let me think.”

Tristan scowled. “How do you have to think to know what happened? You came running in here like there was a chainsaw guy on your heels, and this isn’t a corn maze.”

“Give her some air,” Serenity urged, tugging on Joey’s arm. He took a reluctant step back, joined by Tristan.

After the silence had stretched, Joey couldn’t stand it any longer. “It’s Marik, ain’t it?”

With the other Ghoul down for the count, Marik was the only baddie left. Not only that, but he’d really been the only baddie to begin with.

As soon as he said it, the look on her face told him he was right. He narrowed his eyes. “What did he do?”

“It wasn’t Marik,” Anzu said.

“Bull, Anzu. Your whole face went white.”

“No, I know.” She rubbed her hands against her cheeks and shook her head for at least the hundredth time. “What I mean is _Marik_ wasn’t Marik. I think . . . I think there’s something with his item. You know, like what happens to . . . Ryou . . . sometimes.”

She turned to look at the albino, wincing like she’d betrayed a personal secret.

Ryou’s eyes widened, but he didn’t seem betrayed. “You think his item has a spirit?”

Joey frowned. “Hang on a sec. Ain’t that Yuugi’s?”

“What are we talking about?” Serenity asked.

Duke shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Yuugi’s Millennium Item houses a spirit,” Ryou said. “So does mine.”

It was a little startling; Ryou had never been one to talk about his item. Yuugi was the one for that. But at least that would explain the creepy multiple-me-ness. Apparently Ryou’s spirit wasn’t as friendly as the pharaoh.

Tristan offered a hollow smile to Duke and Serenity. “Welcome to our exclusive club. We believe in the supernatural, but we have no idea how it works. Except Yuugi. Sometimes. Just remember if you hear someone mention ‘items’ not to be surprised about anything that follows.”

“He was a completely different person,” Anzu said. “I’m sure of it. And then it was like he . . . fought himself. Like the good Marik was trying to break past the spirit.”

Ryou grimaced. “I know that feeling.”

“Hang on,” Joey said, “you lost me at ‘good Marik.’”

Before she could respond, the intercom called for all finalists to gather for the concluding lottery.

“I thought there were two duels left.” Serenity frowned.

“But they only have to draw once,” Duke said. “The last match will be between whoever’s left.”

Joey lightly slapped his cheeks back and forth, hoping it would stop the spiraling of his mind. If he faced Marik, he couldn’t be freaking out about spirits and possession and stuff. He had to just fight like normal.

“Anzu,” he said, “no matter who duels next, you stick with us. In fact, from here on out, everyone together, okay? I don’t care if it’s normal Marik or some kind of not-Marik; I don’t trust the creep either way.”

Anzu’s expression tightened. He couldn’t tell if she was a little relieved or even more worried, but either way, hopefully she’d be safe. That was what mattered.

Fuguta arrived, as did Kaiba and little Kaiba. Yuugi and Yori didn’t, and neither did the mystery finalist who hadn’t shown up for anything so far.

And neither did Marik.

The bingo machine started up and spit out the first white ping-pong ball. Fuguta took it, read the number to himself, and held it up. He smiled at Joey before he spoke, so Joey knew—

Finalist number three.

Joey’s number.

Even with all the heaviness they’d just waded through, Joey whooped, punching a fist in the air.

During the second draw, his heart stuttered like the ping-pong balls clattering around in the glass case. When the second ball got spit out, he held his breath. Fuguta raised it, called it out.

Finalist number seven.

Not Marik.

The mystery finalist.

Joey blinked; how was he supposed to feel when he didn’t have a clue who his opponent was or even what they looked like?

“The fifth and final match of the semi-finals will be between finalist number two and finalist number nine,” Fuguta announced. “There will be no intermission between the fourth and fifth matches, so all four duelists must proceed immediately to the dueling ring. As a reminder, no deck changes are allowed now that the matches have been decided.”

Yori would be dueling Marik. Joey breathed a sigh of relief at the thought—not because he couldn’t have given the freak a beating to remember but because Yori would probably do an even better job of it. She’d look him fearlessly in the eye even if he had spirits coming out his ears.

Joey jumped to follow Fuguta, only checking to make sure his friends were behind him.

“Enjoy losing, Wheeler,” Kaiba drawled as he walked past.

Joey shook the Kit Kat at him. “Me and Yori are gonna be the next two winners, Rich-boy. Mark my words.”

“I believe half of that prediction—the half that doesn’t involve you.”

“Good luck, Joey,” Mokuba called out quietly, which earned him a frown from his brother.

Joey grinned. He couldn’t help it; the only bad thing about the littlest Kaiba was his strutting brother, and he could hardly be blamed for that. Not to mention the brave way he’d gone charging up during Rich-boy’s duel to challenge his brother would stick with Joey forever. For half a second, it had almost made Kaiba seem relatable. Almost.

As Joey entered the hallway, Serenity jogged to catch him and hooked her arm around his, beaming.

“This is it,” she said. “I get to see you duel!”

She gave a little squeal, and if Joey had been grinning before, it was nothing compared to how his face almost broke from happy in that moment.

“This is it,” he agreed, squeezing her arm.

He would win his first duel with Serenity watching. Then Yori would put Marik in his place. The semi-finals would be over, and the finals would start.

And Joey Wheeler would be standing through all of it.

++++++++++

Yori’s first kiss had been nothing special in the moment and more embarrassing with every remembrance. After she and Haku had been dating (and living together) for over a month, she’d told him Mehen was a better boyfriend than he was because at least Mehen reacted when she walked by. She could still remember the way his eyebrows slowly rose as he connected the dots behind her anger. Then he caught her by the waist, kissed her dispassionately, and drawled, “Happy now?”

She’d said yes because she’d wanted the answer to be yes. Truthfully, she’d never been happy with Haku. It was impossible to be happy in the same apartment with someone who set her heart on fire every day—to share meals and a bathroom and stand right outside his door for an hour at a time knowing he was fully aware but still uninviting. She’d fallen for Haku fast and hard, adored his confidence, his capability, his cunning, but he’d shown more physical affection for his venomous snake than he’d ever done for her. Their second kiss had been initiated by her, after which he’d immediately sighed and said, “Is this going to be a thing with you?”

So she’d convinced herself that the physical didn’t matter, that it was, in fact, just fake love and that what she had with Haku was more real for the lack of it.

And there was the heart of her embarrassment: herself. The biggest reason she tried to forget everything from her time with Haku was because remembering the lies she’d told herself (and _believed),_ made her feel fake, like she was a pile of ash someone had stamped a girl-shaped cookie cutter into, and at any moment, someone would touch her, and she would crumble because she’d never been real to begin with. After all, she couldn’t be real. No real person would have as blind as she’d been. No real person would have been as stupid.

It was the reason she’d held back with Yami.

She’d liked Yami ever since their date, maybe even before that. And she never would have told him. She would have cut her own tongue out first. Because no matter how much she liked him, no matter how much he proved he was a good guy, there was no way she could survive a second round of humiliating risks. There was no way she would ever lock herself in a second iron maiden of loving someone who didn’t love her in return.

And then he kissed her— _really_ kissed her, kissed her in a way that made her soul tingle and turned the whole world pink.

It was unexpected. It was terrifying. It opened all the doors she’d welded shut. And before she could stop it, her cheeks were wet.

Yami pulled back, his beautiful violet eyes wide with alarm.

“Are you alright?” He touched her cheek gently, swiped a tear with his thumb.

“Not in any way,” Yori said. She heaved in a deep breath, tried for a laugh, tried for an offhand tone. “I am a complete wreck. Why on Earth would you go for someone like me?”

He smiled. “I could ask the same of you; you kissed me back, and I am hardly a complete picture.”

Of course she had. Fast and hard—it was the only path she knew.

“There’s so much you don’t know about me.”

His smile softened. “I believe we’ve had this conversation. I seem to recall reminding you I know even less about myself.”

Still.

She needed to tell him.

At least about Haku.

She needed to.

Would he regret kissing her if he knew?

Her heart cowered in its cage.

Before she could decide whether or not to speak, the overhead system came alive with static, announcing that the fourth match of the semi-finals would be between Joey and Ishizu. The fifth match, Yori’s duel against Marik, would be directly after. The intermission was over; her window was gone. And she couldn’t say it wasn’t somewhat of a relief.

Yami’s expression darkened at the announcement, and his arms tightened around her waist. She didn’t know if he was upset at the interruption or at the idea of her facing Marik, but it stirred her heart either way. It was crazy; she was asking for rejection, but her insides knotted just the same, and she tilted her head up to kiss him again.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t heave a sigh. Didn’t say a thing. He kissed her back, and as he did, he lifted a hand to trace a path along her ear and down her jaw. She shivered, but she smiled, too.

“Shall we be late to the duel?” Yami pulled back enough to wink.

She gave a dramatic gasp. “The King of Games has betrayed his throne.”

He chuckled.

Before she could do something unthinkable, like pour out her soul and make him regret the past few minutes, Yori stepped away.

“Gotta go,” she said.

“Of course.” Yami slipped his hand into hers, tangled their fingers.

Yori led the way, then stopped cold at the door. She gripped his hand.

“Why . . .” She swallowed, throat tight and painful. “Why choose me?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just looked at her. Then his lips twitched. “Why did you save Yuugi from the warehouse fire?”

“I couldn’t not.”

He kissed the back of her hand and whispered, “Something like that.”

It was crazy.

It was fearfully, breathtakingly crazy.

She pressed the button for the door.


	15. The Fourth Duel

Joey took his place on the field confidently, as only Joey Wheeler could—feet apart, chest forward, teeth bared to the world. He cut his cards confidently, as only Joey Wheeler could—feeling the power in each card even as he couldn’t see it because he understood that life’s biggest powers could never be seen.

His friends shouted encouragement from the viewing platform. His sister cheered for him, and he smiled because he hadn’t done anything to cheer for yet, but that was just how great Serenity was. He never deserved her. He was grateful for her every day.

And his opponent—the mysterious, unseen-’til-now, white-costumed woman with jewelry to match Marik’s—watched him evenly as she cut her own cards.

They switched decks. Did one shuffle. Returned them. And then they were supposed to shake hands.

Joey stuck his hand out.

The woman’s eyes flickered to it, then back to his face. She turned and took the position with her back to the wind.

Joey’s hand twitched. He rubbed his palm on his jeans, touched the Kit Kat in his pocket for good luck, and took his place on the other side of the field.

Fuguta declared the start of the match, and Joey decided to make a splash by claiming the opening turn. But as he drew a new card, his grip loosened on the ones already in his hand, and a crooked gust of wind lifted two out of his fingers, whirling them toward the railing.

Joey yelped. He heard gasps from the spectator platform—and a sharp laugh that _had_ to be Rich-boy’s—as he dove after the rogue cards, managing to smash them against his chest with his free arm before they flew into space.

 _Always use one hand to hold cards and the other to draw and play._ He knew that. Yuugi’d taught him that at least a hundred times. It was the only smart way. Smart wasn’t Joey’s forte, especially under stress, though his ears burned to admit it. But he wouldn’t forget again.

“Good save!” Serenity called out.

His ears burned hotter. He took his place again, arranged his cards properly, and summoned Alligator’s Sword [1500/1200] in attack mode.

“I see you’ve finally learned vertical from horizontal,” Kaiba called out. “Congrats on catching up to the six-year-olds.”

Joey scowled at the reference to how he’d mixed up attack- and defense-mode summoning when dueling Rich-boy.

“Alright,” he declared to his opponent, “your move, lady. And how about you start with your name.”

“Ishizu Ishtar,” she said blankly, drawing a card.

She held cards in her Duel Disk hand, of course, using her other one to draw. Joey grimaced.

“Ishtar.” His eyes darted to Marik, who was leaning against the railing and watching the duel with crazy eyes. Joey nodded at him. “Like _that_ freak?”

“My brother.” Empty voice again. She obviously cared about Marik as much as Marik cared about Odion. And here Joey’d thought his family had problems.

“Gravekeeper’s Heretic [1800/1500] in attack mode. I attack.”

Or maybe she was just that monotone about everything.

Her white-haired heretic raised a staff that glowed blue and gold. Alligator’s Sword snarled past rows of jagged teeth, then burst apart. Joey’s lifepoints dropped to 3700.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Wheeler.” Ishizu slid two facedown cards into play. Her face was like a creepy, emotionless mask, something melted into plastic that couldn’t change if it wanted to. “You will lose this match. There is no probability in it; the future is set in stone and shown to me by my Millennium Necklace.”

Joey blinked. He shook his head and blinked again for good measure.

“I missed the punchline,” he said.

“I end my turn,” she said.

The Millennium Items. Joey couldn’t say he was a fan, but he also wasn’t about to be scared off. He drew a card.

“You’ve drawn the magic card Scapegoat,” she said.

She was right. Joey narrowed his eyes. “Okay, how ’bout a new shtick? Maybe you ain’t heard, but I’ve had that mind-readin’ stuff tried on me a few times, and I beat ’em all.”

Well, Yuugi and the pharaoh had been the ones to beat Pegasus. But still. Joey had beaten Esper Roba.

She was less than deterred. “At the end of this turn, you’ll be down to 2700 lifepoints.”

“Don’t let her shake you, Joey!” Tristan called out. Anzu and Serenity chorused agreement.

“Take a look at my Dark Blade [1800/1500]!” Joey said. He summoned the warrior in attack mode, and the cloaked knight bellowed as he appeared on the field. Joey slid two cards into his magic-and-trap slots, activating one immediately. “And once I equip him with Legendary Sword, his attack goes up to 2100. Now let’s see who’s losin’ lifepoints!”

A gleaming broadsword replaced Dark Blade’s short swords, and Joey ordered the knight to attack.

Ishizu never flinched. “Activate continuous trap: Spell Barrier.”

The broadsword shattered, as did Joey’s facedown spell card. He hissed as his lifepoints dropped to 2700.

“As long as my trap is active,” Ishizu said, “any spell cards on your side of the field are negated, and you take 500 points of damage for each one.”

Joey stared at his lifepoint counter. Despite the cold, a few drops of sweat formed beneath his bangs.

“Shall I predict the rest of your future?” Ishizu rubbed at a fingernail, not even looking at him now. “You will continue to lose lifepoints until, five turns from now, your counter falls to zero. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you what that means.”

And Joey faced that announcement as only Joey Wheeler could do—by laughing.

She looked up. “Something about your loss amusing, Mr. Wheeler?”

Joey grinned. “I was just thinkin’ maybe you _can_ see the future. If so, that would be a pretty impossible thing to beat. Should I tell you what that means?”

“You’ll surrender now?”

“Nah, it means you’re the biggest potato I ever faced. An’ I’m ready to bake.”

Serenity cheered, and Joey ended his turn.

++++++++++

The Millennium Necklace, though light in physical weight, was a heavy emotional burden. Ishizu could still remember her twelfth birthday when she’d tied it to her throat and felt it sink like an anchor in her soul.

“Now you are omniscient,” her father had said in his low, guttural voice. “Now you are above self, above passions, above the entrapments of humanity. Your life belongs to our nameless pharaoh and the tombkeepers’ line.”

The necklace had opened her vision, and her mind had crossed a threshold to brilliance. She saw the world in excruciating detail, felt beneath her feet the softness of grass and the sharpness of ice caps she would never behold with her physical eyes. She saw the past—watched the pyramids rise from the sweat of slaves and the pantheons fall under a thousand years of rain. Once she was brave enough, she saw the future—watched the rise of the nameless pharaoh in an unknown city and the fall of the modern world in a sea of fire. Time fell away into meaninglessness, for everything before her was _at once._ Everything was eternal: happening did, happening will, happening is. She stepped as a phantom between the ages while graying men searched decades and died for gifts half as powerful as hers.

And she obeyed her father; she focused on the pharaoh, on her duty. She sat as a watcher in a bird’s nest, eyes trained on a far-off happening while the ship beneath her sank and her family fell to the sharks. She did not foresee her father’s death at the hands of her own brother. She saw the body first with her physical eyes, and only then did she look with eyes of shadow. Then she saw it all, but it was too late. Time was not, as she had foolishly believed, eternal. In truth, moments were fleeting, with small windows of action that passed like the gaps between railcars on speeding trains. She could observe forever, but the right to act was given only once.

Now all her hope hung suspended on one window. Marik’s final hope and her own. The darkness had whispered to her that she must face her brother in a shadow game during the tournament. If she did not act, Marik would destroy the pharaoh and she would fail in her duty both as tombkeeper and as sister.

And her failure would remain vivid in her eyes long after the moment passed, thanks to the gift and curse of her millennium sight.

“You say my lifepoints are droppin’,” her opponent said from across the field, “but yours ain’t farin’ any better.”

After Mr. Wheeler had struggled for several turns to overcome her spell-blocking trap card, he’d finally managed to summon a monster named Jinzo [2400/1500]. The monster’s special ability negated any and all traps on her side of the field, and her opponent had been sure to declare how the field advantage had shifted in his favor. Ishizu was far from ruffled, of course, since all was proceeding in the only way it could. So, in line with her own destiny, she’d sacrificed 3000 lifepoints in order to give her Hollow Gravekeeper the same in attack, bringing her mere inches from inevitable victory. All she had to do was attack Mr. Wheeler as scheduled; he would do the rest himself.

She destroyed his Jinzo, left his field bare.

He grunted as his life dropped to 500.

But like a naïve fool, he smirked. “Still standin’.”

“Celebration is pointless,” she said. “I no longer need to fight in this duel; my win is secure.”

To prove her point, she used Hollow Gravekeeper’s second ability to switch him to defense mode.

Mr. Wheeler’s defiant expression faded. His lips compressed into a line.

“Don’t underestimate me,” he said slowly.

“Next turn, you shall destroy yourself.”

“I said”—his eyes narrowed—“don’t underestimate me.”

Ishizu underestimated no one. Neither did she overestimate them. She simply saw what was truth.

Had she desired, she could have peered with her necklace into the timeline of Joey Wheeler and seen every breath. She could have told him the hours he slept on his first night alive and the hours he would sleep on his last. She could have told him the color of his great-grandfather’s eyes and if he would ever bounce his own grandchildren on his knee. She could have recounted to him the names of people in his life that he himself had forgotten.

But she had no interest in the life and doings of Joey Wheeler, a godless nobody with only circumstantial connection to the pharaoh and no consequence to her family. The farthest she looked with the necklace was the moment his lifepoints dropped to zero and, with a defeated expression, he admitted, “I guess you and everybody else knew it, didn’t you? Fine. Say you beat Joey Wheeler. Tell everybody he was exactly what he looked like—a loser who didn’t know when to quit.”

And now that she had done her part, she simply had to wait, counting down the actions to when he would gamble everything on a fatal dice roll and their pointless competition would come to an end, bringing her one step closer to saving Marik.

“I end my turn,” she said. “You are free to make your final move.”

He clenched his jaw. “We’ll see about that.”

But Ishizu already had seen.

And the train cars continued to pass.

++++++++++

Even though Mai had chosen to stay with Odion of her own volition, it would have been a tragedy not to support her friends in the remaining matches. So she spoke to a nurse, and the nurse said it would be no difficulty to bring Mai a laptop she could use to watch the broadcasts. It was a shame to be live at the event and watch on a screen, but it was better than missing things altogether.

She sat in a chair pulled up to Odion’s bedside, laptop balanced on her knees, and watched Joey’s duel begin.

“Your family is not an easy one, monsieur,” she said quietly, glancing at Odion. A brother and a sister on board, yet neither one had visited after his collapse. Mai had always wished to have siblings, but perhaps having them was sometimes harder.

Odion gave no response to her statement, of course. Sweat had once again beaded on his face, so Mai lifted the cloth the nurse had given her and gently dabbed his forehead. She’d learned after her first time falling ill at sea that nothing was worse than being sick with no one who cared, so even if she was a stranger, she was better than nothing. Better than loneliness.

She set the cloth aside and touched his hand. Every few seconds, his fingers twitched. Squeezing his hand did nothing to calm the tremors, so she could only hope it would calm his subconscious to know he wasn’t alone.

Her eyes returned to the screen. Joey dueled as fiercely as he always had but with a fraction of the errors. Yuugi had told her in Duelist Kingdom that he expected Joey to one day be a better duelist than himself, and Mai couldn’t argue with that. He had an unstoppable spirit she’d never seen rivaled by anyone else. In his book, crippling defeats barely counted as scraped knees.

So even as Mai frowned uncomfortably over Ishizu’s predictions, as she tried to figure out the trick or secret, Joey shrugged a shoulder, brushed them off like gnats, and dueled a solid game as she was certain only he could.

And with equal parts pain and pride in her heart, Mai admitted silently that if she had to face him in the last round of the finals, she wasn’t certain who would win.

++++++++++

_“Hey, Serenity, you’ll never guess where I’m headed.”_

It had been the start of the voicemail Joey left her before he boarded the boat to Duelist Kingdom.

_“Prize money’s enough to pay for your surgery, and I ain’t half the duelist Yuug’ is, but I’m gonna win it for you. Promise. So just hang in there.”_

It was rare for Joey to call, even rarer for him to leave a message. Each time he did, their mother always deleted it as soon as Serenity listened. But she left that message alone for three days: the length of the tournament. Even though she pitched a fit about Joey gambling in a tournament, even though she said it wouldn’t lead to anything, even though she warned Serenity against false hope, she left it alone.

And three days later, Joey called again to say the surgery was on.

“You’ve got this, Joey!” Serenity called out as her brother braced himself against an attack. The pain on his face was enough to make her heart skip a beat, but she understood that standing on the court sometimes meant pain—she’d once lost a tooth to a particularly unlucky serve to the mouth.

Tristan grunted. “That attack was almost the end of it. He’s gotta put up a better defense.”

“Against that opponent, how can he?” Duke shook his head. “You said you believe in supernatural items or whatever, and it sounds crazy to me, but that lady’s predicted plenty of things she shouldn’t have known. Not just cards but lifepoints and turns.”

Serenity stuck her lip out and opened her mouth to protest, but Yuugi spoke first.

“Ishizu’s ability is as real as it seems.”

Serenity’s mouth closed. She didn’t believe Joey’s opponent could possibly see the future, but if it _were_ so, it would be cheating. No one could be expected to play against her.

But Joey had said it might be true. And he’d been more excited than ever.

Which meant it didn’t matter.

With a stubborn frown, Serenity opened her mouth again, ready to declare that Joey could beat even impossible odds.

But she stopped short as Yuugi winked at her and said, “But that doesn’t mean Joey can’t win.”

Serenity smiled. “Exactly.”

And the truth was she desperately wanted him to win. Not for her own sake and not just for him to advance in the tournament but because she knew how much it would mean to him to win his first duel with her watching. So she had to believe he could overcome anything, even the impossible.

“Don’t underestimate me,” Joey warned his opponent.

Serenity wouldn’t. He could win this.

He _would_ win this.

Ishizu declared it to be the start of his final turn.

Joey said, “We’ll see about that.”

Serenity shouted, “I believe in you!”

He flashed her a grin, took a deep breath, and drew a card.

Then his eyes widened.

“It seems you have a fateful decision ahead of you, Mr. Wheeler.” His opponent’s face was as calm as ever when she spoke, but it made Joey’s eyes go even wider.

Serenity’s heart rose in her throat. She swallowed it back down.

Joey would win.

“I see it now.” Joey snorted. Then he laughed. “I get it—I see what you’re doing. I see the trick.”

“I assure you, Mr. Wheeler, there is no trick.”

“Nah, there’s definitely a trick. And now the joke’s on you.” He tilted his Duel Disk and tapped the lifepoint counter, which was at 500. “Looks like I’m runnin’ low. Better fill the tank.”

He wagged the card he’d just drawn, then entered it in a slot.

“I play the spell card Fateful Dice,” he declared.

Tristan frowned. “‘Fateful’ was what Ishizu said, wasn’t it? Why’s he playing the card she predicted?”

“I guess he’s calling her bluff.” Duke tugged on his earring, shrugged. “It’s not a bad strategy. If she does know his cards, calling attention to one might be her way of trying to get him not to play it.”

“Be careful, Joey,” Anzu whispered. She folded her arms and gripped her elbows.

A glowing blue pixie appeared on Joey’s side of the field. She held one large, white die on each palm.

“This is an all-or-nothing play,” Joey said, voice and face grim. “If I roll doubles, I go up a thousand lifepoints. Anything else, I lose the same.”

Serenity’s breath caught in her throat. Tristan looked like he’d swallowed a bee.

“Okay, not the bluff I would have gone with,” Duke said.

“Is he nuts?” Tristan hissed. “She says his lifepoints will go to zero this turn, and he plays the card that’ll make it happen?”

“Maybe it’s like an Oedipus thing?” Serenity suggested weakly.

They blinked at her.

“Like in the play. By trying to avoid the prophecy, Oedipus actually made it happen.”

“So instead, Joey’s trying to make it happen by making it happen.” Duke shook his head. “That still means he’ll lose.”

“Unless he rolls doubles.” _Please roll doubles._

“Roll your dice, Mr. Wheeler, and let’s be done.”

Joey grinned across the field. “Don’t be so sure this is the end. Maybe I’m luckier than anyone ever gave me credit for.”

“I don’t like the odds,” Ryou murmured.

Tristan clenched his fists. “Come on, snake eyes.”

Serenity had never prayed with her eyes open until that moment. _Please, God, let him roll doubles._

The pixie raised her dice. She swept forward; her wings left faint glitter trails in the air. Like hope.

She lifted her hands, tipped her wrists.

The dice released.

Serenity kept her eyes wide open. _Please be doubles._ She watched the dice tumble like the air had turned to honey, sticking and slowing with every rotation. _Please be doubles._

Until finally—

—they landed.

Tears pricked her eyes.

Tristan turned away, biting a fist.

A two and a six.

It was over.

In silence, Joey’s lifepoints scrolled to down to zero, and Serenity’s heart dropped right alongside.

Joey lowered his arms, fingers slack, defeated.

“Well,” he said finally, “I guess you and everybody else knew it, didn’t you? Fine.” His voice cracked. “Say you beat Joey Wheeler. Tell everybody he was exactly what he looked like—a loser who didn’t know when to quit.”

Ishizu was already turning away, reaching for her deck. “I have no need to brag over such a paltry victory.”

She unsnapped it.

And Joey grinned.

And his pixie snickered.

Serenity stopped breathing. She looked to Yuugi, jaw slack in a silent question.

He smiled. “If Joey had truly lost, the duel would have ended, and all holograms would have disappeared.”

Duke gasped. “The pixie.”

“Ishizu’s monster as well.”

“WHAT!” Tristan whirled back to face the field. “Did he—?!”

Joey’s lifepoint counter scrolled up to 1500, but Ishizu’s was at zero. She stared at her Duel Disk with wide eyes.

“What is this?” she asked, as if a waiter had brought an empty plate instead of her order.

“This is me makin’ my own fate,” Joey said.

Everything on the field vanished, and the referee raised an arm.

“Ishizu Ishtar has surrendered the match by removing her deck from play. Joey Wheeler wins the fourth match of the semi-finals and advances to the finals!”

“Wait, I didn’t—” Ishizu stopped short, staring at her Duel Disk again, then to the deck in her opposite hand.

“He did it.” Serenity squealed. “He did it!”

She threw her arms around Duke’s neck, and he laughed, lifting her a few inches off the ground in a hug.

“Fateful Dice has a special effect if I use it when I’m below 1000 lifepoints,” Joey said, flashing the grin Serenity loved so much. “If I don’t roll doubles but my opponent don’t call my bluff on the loss, I get lifepoints anyway. But hey, don’t beat yourself up, Ishizu. There ain’t no way you coulda known what would happen—unless, oh, unless you can see the future. Then I guess you shoulda known.”

Yori snorted. “Ishizu hasn’t learned a thing since our duel. She doesn’t even give the possibilities a thought.”

“Maybe she’ll learn now,” Yuugi said.

Joey strode across the field to his opponent, a bounce in his step. “Rarest card, thanks.”

She stared at him, jaw hanging. The referee had to repeat the call for her ante before she flipped woodenly through her deck and handed Joey a card.

“Remember this.” He tapped her card to his forehead. “There’s more to duelin’ than cards and lifepoints and turns. There’s people, too. The pharaoh taught me that.”

“Well done, Joey,” Yuugi whispered, and Serenity could swear there was a catch in his voice.

Then the platform lowered, and Joey bounded down the stairs just as Serenity raced up. She threw her arms around him, and he gripped her tightly in return, swinging her in a circle that almost took them both flying off the steps.

She laughed. “Joey, that was amazing!”

He sniffed and set her down, eyes wet as he said, “Thanks for watchin’ every minute.”

She smiled.

Tristan crowded behind her, bellowing, “JOEY WHEELER, THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!”

“DAMN STRAIGHT IT IS!” Joey hollered back, and the two boys engaged in a friendly punching battle that would definitely leave bruises. Serenity retreated to avoid any unintentional splash damage, giggling as she went.

Anzu rolled her eyes at the boys but called out, “You really pulled through. I was worried.”

Joey slapped a hand to his heart, elbowing Tristan in the same movement. “What, no faith?”

“Only one duel left now,” Ryou said, turning to look at Yori.

“And big shoes to fill.” She nodded at Joey.

“Thanks, man.” Joey grinned. “But you’re gonna beat the pants off that Marik freak, and I can’t wait to see it. It’s the best way to celebrate my comcast.”

Anzu rolled her eyes again. “It’s ‘conquest,’ Joey.”

“What? No way. That’s, like, a telephone company or whatsit. A toothpaste, maybe.”

“Oh, Joey.” Serenity winced, but she couldn’t help a smile. He was a goofball _and_ a protector. Incredible in every way.

Serenity had spent most of her time at the tournament so far trying not to worry (or freak out) about what kind of consequences she’d face once she made it home again. But she was certain now more than ever that it had been the right decision to come.

“Hey, sis. Have a Kit Kat.” Joey grinned as he snapped one in half and held out a stick for her.

She didn’t regret a moment.


	16. Uncontrollable

As Ishizu’s opponent triumphantly left the field, Shadi appeared in his wake. His expression was of the usual unreadable variety.

“I failed,” Ishizu said. Her voice cracked.

“You did.” Shadi’s blue eyes were cold. “But it didn’t happen here. It happened long ago, when you cast perfection in a mold it was ill-suited for.”

“No, I . . .” Ishizu groaned, the most unrestrained sound she’d ever made in her life. She looked away. It was a mistake; she saw Marik.

Or more accurately, she saw the monster.

It smirked. Licked its lips.

Shadi moved in front of her, blocking her view. “You and your brother were both raised on false traditions and even falser ideas. He rebelled; you embraced. But neither of you broke free.”

“Finalist number seven,” the referee called out, “you must clear the field for the next duel!”

Ishizu lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but she didn’t move. Her heart pounded in her throat, caged behind the Millennium Necklace.

“If you _truly_ wish to help your brother, do so now.”

Ishizu touched her necklace, felt its anchor weight, familiar and comforting in its burden. Shadi raised an eyebrow. He disappeared.

“Ms. Ishtar, clear the field at once!”

She swallowed. Nodded. She slid her deck into the pocket of her gown, smoothed the rough white fabric. Then she squared her shoulders and descended the stairs, stopping only when she came face-to-face with the pharaoh.

He said nothing, apparently waiting for her to speak. Yori shifted closer to him, narrowing her eyes. Ishizu did her best to ignore the redhead.

Slowly, haltingly, Ishizu untied her necklace. The gold slipped from her throat, left her skin cold in newfound emptiness. She forced herself to hold it out rather than pull it back.

The pharaoh’s eyes widened.

“Take it,” Ishizu said.

He blinked. After a moment, he lifted a hand, and she dropped the necklace into his palm.

Something inside her breathed. Tears pricked her eyes.

“When I first used the necklace to view your awakening”—she swallowed—“what I saw frightened me.”

“I don’t blame you.” His eyes said he blamed himself.

“Though I thought it was the shadows, it wasn’t. It was the mortality.” She took a deep breath, let it fill her lungs, let it lift her spirit. “If you’d been perfect, I could have trusted without effort. Without choice. The way I was meant to. If you’d been perfect, it would have meant I could be, too, as long as I obeyed duty to the letter.”

“But I’m not.” He smiled faintly, brushed his thumb over the Eye of Horus on the necklace.

“And it cast everything else in shadow.”

She’d spent four years believing she wasn’t a traitor, believing she’d had no other choice with Marik, so therefore, she’d made the correct one.

She’d spent four years lying to herself, trying to cover the guilt that her brother’s fate—her father’s fate—could have been different had she only sacrificed duty for family and let Marik run.

Her eyes shifted, focused on Yori. The girl raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna predict the outcome of my duel with your brother?”

“No.” Ishizu glanced across the field, saw the monster mounting the stairs. Her heart ached. “I’m asking for mercy.”

Yori scowled. “You want me to let him win?”

“I ask only that you try to free my brother’s spirit from the monster now in control of his body.”

Anzu stepped forward, voice quiet. “What do you mean by that?”

“There is darkness within each Millennium Item that the user must have strength to command; it is why so few are fated to wield the items. Marik was overcome by the rod, and what he once used to control others now controls him.”

“He’s being controlled by his _item?”_ Ryou’s eyes widened as he spoke, and he touched the front of his shirt. “It’s not a spirit?”

“You know,” Yori said softly, “he’s used that rod to control and nearly kill people I care about. If he’s feeling a taste of his own medicine, maybe that’s a good thing.”

Ishizu swallowed heavily, forced herself not to bite back.

“Marik has made many mistakes of his own,” she said instead. Her voice broke. “As have I. But mercy isn’t always given because it is deserved. Wouldn’t you know something of that?”

Yori tensed. She glanced up at the field as the monster came to a stop in the center, leering down at them.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured.

Ishizu would have to content herself with that for the moment. She could no longer view the future, no longer pretend she knew perfectly what would happen and could therefore perfectly solve the problems ahead. Such sight hadn’t saved her father, hadn’t saved Odion, and wouldn’t save Marik. She would have to try the blind approach of the mortal, to do her best minute by minute stumbling in the dark and, in the end, hope it was enough to lead her to light.

She moved to the back of the viewing platform and took deep, steadying breaths to keep herself from the edge of panic. Where she had before stood to the side of the tracks and watched the train pass, looking for gaps between cars, now she stood directly on the tracks, waiting for an oncoming train to hit her with the full force of the unknown.

++++++++++

“Finalist number nine, please take your place on the field,” Fuguta called out.

Yori set her jaw, steeled herself. But as she stepped forward, Yami caught her hand.

“I want you to take Osiris,” he said quietly.

“And have it strike me with lightning?” Yori shook her head.

“You can control it.” Yami glanced at the field. “Marik has the final god card, and he would have kept the strongest for himself. You’ll need something to combat it.”

“I have my deck,” Yori said firmly. “I have Dante.”

He grimaced, then released a small sigh. “You’re right.”

“I am.” She smiled. “But thanks for worrying.”

She wanted to kiss him again, almost leaned forward, but the thought of everyone watching stopped her. She’d seen the way Joey defended his sister from a less-than-ideal relationship; she could only imagine he’d defend his best friend the same way.

“Besides,” she said, trying for a light tone, “you’ll need that god card to face Seto in the finals. Or, who knows, me.”

She winked, and his answering smile made her heart flip. Then she pulled her hand free and climbed the stairs to the dueling platform.

The referee announced the fifth and final match of the semi-finals. Yori stood directly in front of Marik, met his inflamed eyes with her own steely ones, and shuffled her deck before extending it to him.

“Don’t get blood on my cards,” she said, eyeing his arm where he’d left a long gash unbandaged and exposed to the night air. Blood had smeared down his skin and onto the gold bands around his wrist.

“I wonder . . .” He took her deck, handed her his own. His eyebrows lifted. “What would happen to a body blasted off the edge?”

His eyes moved pointedly to the waist-high railing at the end of the field, then beyond it, to the dark.

“I would have gone with ‘lovely weather’ for a meaningless icebreaker,” Yori said. She cut his cards, snapped them back together. “But to each their own.”

He smirked, and the expression tilted like one side of his jaw had come unhinged. “Perhaps we should test it with the loser of this match.”

A white-robed figure materialized next to Yori. It wasn’t much of a surprise since she’d seen him on the field earlier with Ishizu. She glanced around quickly, but the referee and Marik gave no reaction.

“Do not fight this battle,” Shadi said.

Yori blinked. She looked at Marik, taking his time to shuffle her cards, looked at the referee, ready to announce the start of the duel.

“How am I supposed to respond to that?” she demanded quietly.

“I imagine with blustering and threats that you’ll win,” Marik said, oblivious to the fact that she’d spoken to someone else. “I do enjoy when they bluster; the panic smells like the dark.”

“I warned you earlier,” Shadi said, “that your combat with Marik will only cause everything already bad to grow worse.”

Sure he had, but she’d assumed that meant charging after Marik with a switchblade, not facing him in the tournament like normal.

She gritted her teeth. “You could have been more specific.”

“My apologies!” Marik grinned, eyes bulging. “Things like ‘I’m not afraid of you’ and ‘You’ll pay for what you did.’ You could start there, with the clichés. Then we could narrow to the fears that lurk in only your personal closet, like your connection to the pharaoh and how you won’t let me cut the limbs from his body. I’d love to hear it all.”

Yori narrowed her eyes. If she withdrew, Marik would advance in the finals. Maybe he would duel Yami. Maybe Seto. Both could beat him; she didn’t doubt that. But first, he would stand across the field, taunting. He would take digs at Yami’s past, at Mokuba.

Yori shoved his deck back at him, snatching her own. Marik snickered.

“We’re ending things now,” she said.

“I can tell already . . .” Marik raised the rod, licked the point of one wing, tilted it at her. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Don’t do this,” Shadi said. “Withdraw.”

“I won’t,” Yori said.

“No,” Marik agreed, chuckling to himself, “I’m afraid you won’t. In a contest of power, there must always be a loser—console yourself with that.”

He turned, strode to the far end of the platform, and placed his back to the wind. Yori took the end closest to the elevator, stared resolutely into the cold.

“Duel start!” Fuguta bellowed.

“Duel start,” Yori murmured.

Marik cackled.

“I had hoped you would trust me,” Shadi said. He’d followed Yori to her side of the field, though she’d avoided looking at him.

Her heart twisted in her chest. She kept her voice low, nearly inaudible, since he stood right at her elbow. “It’s been a busy day, but I’ve still had some time to think. You said my stolen memories—Yuugi’s, Grandpa’s—were part of my punishment from Ra. But Ra expected me to die with Yuugi’s parents.”

Marik swept a hand out, tilted his head in a bow.

“Victims first,” he said. His tongue darted across the edge of his teeth.

“I don’t think gods waste effort.” Yori met Shadi’s blue eyes coldly. “Only humans.”

Then she took her draw phase, arranged her hand, and turned back to Marik.

“I play the spell card Graceful Charity,” she said, raising her voice. Her card glowed on the field, an angel with extended hands. _Draw Three_ blinked on her lifepoint counter. She drew the top three cards from her deck, examined her new hand, and then slid two cards into the graveyard, followed by the expended Graceful Charity.

She had expected Shadi to disappear.

He didn’t.

“I lied,” he admitted. “Only about that. I thought placing you close to the puzzle initially was wise because it would make things easier for you. I was wrong; it was your proximity to the prophesied vessel that provoked Ra’s wrath so thoroughly. He commanded I take their memories to wipe you from existence, but I took yours on my own. With them, you would have searched for your family, even if they didn’t know you. It was safer for you to only seek the puzzle when all items did the same.”

Yori normal-summoned Thief of Souls [1100/800] in attack mode. She activated his ability and special-summoned Thief of Lives [1300/500] from her graveyard, automatically raising both monsters’ attack points by 500.

“I do trust you,” she said quietly. “But I have to do what I think is right. Just like you.”

His expression softened. “Sometimes I forget defiance is your specialty. Be careful.”

She nodded; he vanished.

“I’ll place two cards facedown and end my turn,” Yori said. She narrowed her eyes at Marik. “Now show me you’re not all talk.”

++++++++++

It took all of Yami’s self-control to stand as a useless audience member on the platform while Yori faced the most dangerous man he’d ever met. It took all his control to keep his arms folded tightly across his chest instead of snatching her out of harm’s way. It took all his control not to listen to the dark whispers in his ears begging him to banish Marik forever to a land of shadows. It took all his control not to use the newly obtained Millennium Necklace to see what dangers lurked ahead.

Yori had entered the duel with eagerness in her eyes and confidence in her steps. She was more than capable of defeating Marik, and it would be wrong of Yami to stop her for his own selfish reasons.

So even though his heart twinged with every beat, he remained a bystander.

Yori hit the ground running. In one turn, she had two monsters on the field, one with 1600 attack points, the other with 1800, and another two cards facedown in preparation of whatever might come.

But Marik charged in just as strongly. He played Jam Breeding Machine, a magic card which generated one Slime Token [500/0] per turn after the turn it was activated.

“He’s savin’ up sacrifices for some big beastie,” Joey said, face dark.

“His god card,” Yami agreed. His fingers tightened on his arms.

Marik played Pot of Greed, drew two new cards, and added two cards to the field—Makyura the Destructor [1600/1200] and an equip card that raised Makyura’s attack by 500.

“I was hoping Marik wouldn’t actually know how to duel,” Tristan admitted. “You know, like he cheated his way into the tournament.”

“Who is this guy anyway?” Duke asked, eyebrows furrowed. “It seems personal.”

“He’s after me,” Yami said.

“It’s a long story.” Joey widened his eyes like a child telling ghost stories by flashlight. “Like, 3,000-year long.”

Duke shook his head. “Forget I asked.”

Marik declared an attack, and Yami clenched his jaw. Makyura charged across the field, slicing Thief of Souls in half. But Yori’s lifepoints remained untouched.

“You activated my trap card—Reflection,” she declared, just as the mirrored card rose on the field. “Any battle damage I take transfers to you instead.”

“’Atta girl!” Joey pumped a fist in the air.

Yami wished he could show the same enthusiasm. As Marik’s lifepoints scrolled down to 3500, the Egyptian smiled and reached for the rod in his belt.

“I believe it’s time to increase the stakes,” he said.

It took all of Yami’s control not to start a shadow game himself.

Yori’s gaze remained firm. “You’ll only have more to lose.”

Marik smirked. The rod flashed gold.

An orb of starless black overtook the field—

—and both duelists disappeared from view.

++++++++++

It was like being underwater again. Yori could feel the darkness dragging at her skin like liquid, clogging her breath. She swiped a hand out, but the darkness didn’t lessen. The only person she could see was Marik, smirking at her from across the field.

“So begins our shadow game,” he growled, licking his lips. “Let me taste your fear.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark.” Yori drew a card.

“Oh, but there are so very many things you _are_ afraid of,” he said, “and the darkness will reveal them all.”

Yori surveyed her cards. She still couldn’t believe Seto had replaced and improved her entire deck with no effort at all.

Well, almost her entire deck. Dante had pulled through on his own. And that thought made it easier to breathe in the dark.

She switched Thief of Lives to defense and set another trap card facedown. Marik was obviously saving up sacrifices to bring out his god, but Yori had never been afraid to see a player’s trump card. Overcoming a trump was the fastest way to win a duel—no one ever made a backup plan for losing their best card. Marik was likely no exception.

“Your move,” she said.

Marik giggled to himself. “Makyura, destroy her precious thief.”

Yori smirked. As her thief let out a shriek and disappeared, Marik’s lifepoints scrolled down to 3000.

“Oh, I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” Marik said, unfazed by the dent in his lifepoints. He circled a finger at the shadows encasing them. The darkness seemed to flicker. Faint colors took shape in the form of people, blurred at first, then crystal clear—

Yori saw herself as a child, standing at the orphanage.

She took a step back. “What is this?”

“I warned”—Marik grinned—“that the shadows would reveal your deepest fears. Every time you lose a monster in this shadow game, part of your soul will be exposed.”

Playing like a movie across the shadows, Yori watched herself standing next to the orphanage headmistress while a little brunette girl skipped out the front door with two loving adults.

 _“Will that ever happen to me?”_ Yori asked.

 _“No.”_ The headmistress flipped through papers on a clipboard, never glancing at her. _“You’re too old, and you’re a troublemaker. But we’ll get you into the foster system after your next birthday, and then you’ll see how great an orphanage really is.”_

The orphanage door swung closed with finality.

“Ooh,” Marik purred, crossing the Millennium Rod over his heart. His eyes widened. “What is the fear—is it abandonment? Lack of love? Lack of belonging? What a delightful mystery.”

“Finish your turn,” Yori ground out. The shadows around her felt colder than ever, and even as the images faded, she could see that door swinging closed like an afterimage burned permanently onto her mind after a hundred viewings. That was about how many times she’d seen it in real life as child after child found a new home and she was left alone.

“I am finished.” Marik winked. “For now.”

++++++++++­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Seto Kaiba did not enjoy holding two conversations at once. In fact, he had a special glare he used only on a person who tried to force him into a conversation when he was already holding one.

But Yuugi Mutou refused to be cowed by the signature glare.

“She’s in danger, Kaiba!” the tri-colored Chihuahua barked again, like he was Yori’s personal guard dog.

“For the last time,” Seto snapped, “if you interfere in this duel, I will have you ejected from the tournament. And if you keep talking, I’ll have you ejected from the blimp, too.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Mokuba said, still staring at the dark cloud that had spread across the dueling field. “Seto won’t kick out anyone he wants to duel no matter what rules he made.”

“Not helpful, Mokuba,” Seto said.

“Still waiting on your orders, Mr. Kaiba,” one of Seto’s employees said, voice crackling through the radio in his collar.

“Well you didn’t kick Marik out,” Mokuba shot back. “And if you would have, this never would have happened.”

Yuugi’s bark grew twice as loud and annoying. “You had reason to disqualify Marik and you ignored it?!”

“Mr. Kaiba—”

“ _I’m thinking!_ ” Seto roared into his collar. He gripped the fabric tightly enough it threatened to crush the broadcasting device. Ahead of him stood a solid wall of fog darker than the ocean below. It was unbroken by wind, impenetrable by light, and when Fuguta had attempted to enter it, he’d run into some kind of physical barrier.

It wasn’t a hologram.

Why couldn’t it have just been a hologram? Why did everything have to be a magic-and-light show with these Egyptian freaks?

And Yuugi was hopping right on the Egyptian-freak train. The stupid puzzle around his neck hadn’t stopped glowing ever since the cloud of black appeared. It was matched by a faint glowing eye on his forehead that Seto was trying desperately to ignore.

“Stop the broadcast,” Seto growled over the radio.

“Mr. Kaiba, are you certain—”

“Kaiba, you have no idea what Marik is capable—”

“I know _exactly_ what Marik is capable of!” Seto took a deep breath, then continued in a more reasoned tone. “Yori can take care of herself. If you involve yourself in this duel in any way, I’ll disqualify you, and they’ll still have a rematch. If you actually want to help, you can give me a scientific reason for what’s happening. A scientific solution would go a long way, too.”

When Marik had come after Seto, he’d made it clear he was after the god card. Yori had nothing Marik wanted. At most, this would be a bunch of his taunts and mumbo jumbo. But if Yuugi made it clear how far he was willing to go for Yori before the stakes advanced past smoke screens, then she was in real danger—because Yuugi _did_ have a god card. If Seto didn’t keep him from throwing himself onto the field, there was a good chance Yori might get thrown off the blimp. Or worse.

“I’m pulling her out,” Yuugi said, face set in lines almost as stubborn as Seto’s.

Before Seto could respond, a new voice spoke up.

“Yami, if you pull her out of a shadow game, won’t she still get the consequences of losing?”

Seto hadn’t noticed exactly when Anzu had decided to invade his viewing platform along with Yuugi, but at least now the Chihuahua had someone to converse with, and Seto could get back to focusing on what was important. He turned away and moved to the opposite side of the platform.

Perhaps he should have disqualified Marik. It would have ruined Seto publicly—regardless of any of Marik’s tactics, the press would have spun it into some story about how Seto disqualified any real threats in order to rig his win in the tournament. And if he would have told the truth about their encounter, the story would have then been twisted in a way that portrayed his tournament and any future KaibaCorp activities as unsafe.

Or worse, he would have been deemed an unfit guardian, one whose lifestyle put Mokuba in danger. He was on thin ice for his guardianship anyway since he was still legally a minor himself. His enemies would jump on any excuse to strike at him in the personal sphere. The only reason everything with Pegasus hadn’t sent Mokuba back into the system was because Seto never let any of it get public.

So he couldn’t let this get public either.

“Stop the broadcast,” he repeated, hand on his collar. “Put up a screen that says we’re experiencing technical difficulties.”

“But KaibaCorp never experiences technical—”

“While I appreciate your faith in this company, if that screen isn’t up in two seconds, you’ll no longer have a place in it.”

“Yes, Mr. Kaiba.”

“Add the last known score for anyone who wasn’t . . .” Seto trailed off, squinting at the black fog.

A bit of red flickered across the black. Then a spot of blue. The flickering colors twisted themselves into a projected image—a vaguely familiar, black-haired child standing next to an adult with a clipboard.

“Sir?” crackled his collar. “We’ve stopped the video feed.”

Seto blinked, then said, “Add the last known score. Don’t continue broadcasting until I say.”

Another girl flickered across the black, walking hand in hand with her parents. They exited the room, leaving the first girl and the adult woman.

 _“Will that ever happen to me?”_ the girl asked, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her bright eyes watched the door.

Seto knew those eyes.

 _“No,”_ the woman said, leafing carelessly through her papers. _“You’re too old, and you’re a troublemaker.”_

And Seto understood exactly what he was seeing.

He turned back to Yuugi, pointing an accusatory finger at the projected images. “Where did Marik get footage of Yori’s childhood?”

Meanwhile, the woman had continued to speak: _“But we’ll get you into the foster system after your next birthday, and then you’ll see how great an orphanage really is.”_

“That’s _Yori?”_ Anzu gasped.

For his part, Yuugi merely narrowed his eyes.

“Yori’s an orphan?” barked the normal mutt. In just a few seconds of diverted attention, Seto’s viewing platform had been overtaken by the entire geek squad.

“Got a problem, Wheeler?” Seto snapped.

As adept at social cues as ever, Wheeler said, “You’re the one’s got a problem, Rich-boy. What’re you gonna do about this freaky duel?”

“There’s nothing Kaiba _can_ do about it,” Yuugi said, and something about his tone started a tick in Seto’s neck. His first instinct was to declare how he was about to bring down this Egyptian light show, but he stopped himself short.

Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and stared Yuugi down.

“I don’t have to do a thing,” he said. “I’ve seen Yori duel. In two rounds, she’ll have Marik on the ropes. One more and she’ll win.”

And he couldn’t explain why he said it. But he saw the orphanage door swing closed across the black screen, and he felt the echo of it in his heart. Along with something else.

Something else he couldn’t explain.


	17. The Fifth Duel

Yori summoned her Red Raptor [1700/1000] in attack mode and ended her turn.

“Rattled, are you?” Marik taunted.

“Not as rattled as you’re about to be.”

A second slime token appeared on Marik’s side of the field. He ordered his Makyura to attack Yori’s raptor, and she smirked.

“Wrong move,” she said. She pulled Blue Raptor [1700/1000] from her deck and added it to the field, raising both of their attack points by 200.

“A pitiful defense,” Marik said, “and not enough to stop me.”

“Oh, but wait,” Yori said. “There’s more.”

Her trap card activated, boosting her monsters’ attack points by another 500 each during Marik’s battle phase. One of her raptors leapt forward and snapped its jaws over Makyura’s neck. Marik’s monster disappeared with a scream, and his lifepoints dropped to 2700.

The shadows around them rippled.

Yori stared Marik down with cold eyes. “Time to see the monsters under your bed.”

But he merely cackled. “Careful what you wish for.”

Muted colors rippled in the fog around them, twisting to form a vast expanse of land cast in moonlight. Fifty or more horses galloped, carrying riders dressed in rough linen. The riders lifted spears and curved blades.

More images formed—a group of women and children directly in the riders’ path. The woman screamed for them to get back to the village. Two of the children bolted, but the others stood frozen in fear. She grabbed another two by the arms and hauled them with her, running for some unseen shelter. She screamed back at the remaining child, but he remained petrified, his entire body shaking.

A lone rider pulled ahead of the rest of the group. His white robe billowed behind him, and as his hood blew back from his face, it revealed his blue eyes, wide and bright in frenzy. He galloped straight for the child.

And then he didn’t stop.

Yori gasped in horror, looking away as the child screamed. After another second, the images and sound faded to silence.

“Mmm,” Marik purred. “Delightful.”

Yori’s stomach twisted in knots. She shot a glance at Marik and saw sweat dotted on the Egyptian’s face, even though his smile supported his description. He raised a hand to look at his cards, and Yori saw it tremble.

“Bracing, isn’t it?” he said. “Fear.”

Yori narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you?”

The images shown with her monster’s defeat had been directly from her memory, but what she’d just witnessed had been the final fear of a little boy trampled to death by a madman. Unless the Millennium Rod allowed people to return from the dead, it couldn’t have come from Marik’s memory.

Marik hesitated, poised to place a card on his Duel Disk. The edges of his mouth curled until his eyes squinted.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I’m not exactly Marik, am I? Did they tell you I was the rod? I’m not exactly that either.”

Yori hissed in sudden pain. She looked down in time to see her lifepoints drop.

“Did you forget Makyura’s equip card? When sent to the graveyard, it takes 500 of your lifepoints with it. I hope the pain is exquisite. If not, I have just what the doctor ordered.”

He played his card, and a massive spiked wheel appeared on the field. Her Blue Raptor let out a shriek as the wheel trapped it against the spikes. A trickle of blood ran down its neck.

Yori’s lifepoints dropped by another 500 points, and she took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Makyura’s death allows me to play a trap card directly from my hand. As long as my Nightmare Wheel has your raptor, you’ll bleed 500 lifepoints each turn.” He bit the tip of one of the rod’s wings, giggled. “I’m just dying to see what you’ll do about it. End turn.”

Yori looked around at the black fog. She wished she could see Yami through it. If she reached out with her bracelet, perhaps she could contact him, but what would she say?

There was nothing to do but duel.

She drew a card and surveyed her hand. First order of business was to get her raptor free and stop the lifepoint hemorrhage. She sacrificed her raptor to summon Blind Jester [2100/800], one of Seto’s additions to her deck. Too bad he couldn’t even see her use it.

Her jester appeared on the field, cackling. He did a handstand, and the bells on his hat jingled.

“My jester’s special ability allows me to steal one card randomly from my opponent’s hand,” she said.

Marik rolled his eyes and extended his hand, card backs to her. She crossed the field and plucked a card from the selection.

“Bummer,” she said. “I was hoping for your god card.”

As she moved back to her place, he snorted.

“As if you could control a god,” he said.

“After I win it from you, we’ll put that to the test.”

She surveyed the card she’d pulled, called Weighing of the Heart. Although not a god card, it wasn’t a bad selection.

“I’ll play your magic card,” she said. “And I’m sure you’re familiar with what it does.”

Marik gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Enjoy this while you can.”

The card allowed her to swap a current field monster out for one in her deck up to 200 attack points stronger. She slid her second raptor back into her deck and summoned Jade Assassin [1900/1900] to the field.

Her jester couldn’t attack in the same turn it used its special ability, but her assassin had no such constraints. She ordered it to destroy one of Marik’s slime tokens, now that they were unguarded.

Her assassin sent a wave of throwing stars that shredded the bulbous slime token, and as Marik’s lifepoints scrolled down to 1300, the darkness around them rippled.

“Speaking of monsters,” Marik murmured. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips.

Figures burst into form in the darkness, accompanied by a cacophony of screams. Yori slapped her hands over her ears, flinching away in response—it had to be a hundred or more voices all screaming at once. Children, adults, elderly. All afraid.

She looked up just in time to see a girl her age impaled on a spear. Her stomach crumpled as the girl did. The soldier who’d killed her reached down, grabbed her arm, and dragged the body away. All around him, other soldiers advanced on weaponless people, and innocent after innocent fell under the onslaught and were dragged away to some unknown grave.

“What is this?” Yori choked out. Her bracelet vibrated against her wrist.

A bearded man hid in the shadows of a ramshackle building, his own fist stuffed in his mouth to keep from making any sound. His wide eyes watched as the soldiers killed people who were likely his friends, neighbors, maybe even family. A child shrieked, and the man lurched forward, then pulled back again.

“Fear,” Marik said, nibbling at the rod. His eyes reflected the madness happening around them. “It drags humans like puppets, showcases their worst sides.”

A soldier found the man and grabbed him by the hair when he tried to run. He raised his spear.

Yori watched, chest tight. “What were the soldiers afraid of?”

Marik’s tongue hung from his mouth when he grinned.

A blade appeared through the soldier’s chest, and he screamed, his spear falling to the ground along with his body.

++++++++++

Yami watched in horror as the scenes of carnage played out across the black barrier. Without being told, he felt it in his heart—there was something familiar about what was happening.

And that terrified him.

“Bet you’re glad you stopped the broadcast, eh, Rich-boy?” Joey said, but the joke was half-hearted, and his voice faltered at the end.

“I don’t understand.” Anzu hesitated. “If what we saw before was from Yori’s memory, is this . . . from Marik’s?”

“No,” Ishizu said, face bleak. “This darkness comes from the rod itself.”

The images faded, and for a few minutes, no one broke the ringing silence.

“This all leads back to me,” Yami murmured, unable to escape the feeling.

“I’m afraid so, my pharaoh,” said a new voice.

Yami spun and came face to face with Shadi. The white-robed Egyptian stared expressionlessly at the darkness that concealed Marik.

“Who’s this guy?” Joey demanded, jabbing a finger at him and looking around. “Where’d he come from?”

“I don’t appreciate stowaways in my tournament,” Kaiba said, eyes narrowed, speaking for the first time in nearly ten minutes.

Yami had neither time nor patience to deal with prophecies and warnings.

“Say it and leave,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

“The history of the Millennium Items is a tragedy,” Shadi said, “drenched in blood.”

“Is there any other kind?” Ryou frowned.

Shadi turned to face him. “Within the ring is the hand that will finish the work.”

“I’m calling security,” Kaiba said.

Shadi turned his eyes on the CEO. “Within the rod is the mind that will never forget.”

And finally, he brought his gaze back to Yami. Yami felt it like a spotlight on his soul, turning the whole world to look at him.

“And within the puzzle,” Shadi said, “is the heart that started it all.”

“Started what?” he asked, and his voice came out hoarse.

“Look, pal.” Joey pushed forward until he came eye-to-eye with Shadi. “Marik started this whole mess by takin’ over people’s minds and comin’ after the pharaoh. Yami’s just been defendin’ himself—and honorably, at that.”

“Joey,” Yami said, but this time his voice was so hoarse it was inaudible.

“My pharaoh.” Shadi continued to stare him down with that spotlight gaze. “The seven items. The three gods. You must bring all to the Valley of the Kings, regardless of what they might cost to obtain. It is not just the key to uncover the past but the one to save the future; the war you see before you in this shadow game never ended, and it will consume the world you know should you fail. You have mere days before all is lost.”

The elevator dinged, and two security guards rushed out.

But Shadi was gone.

++++++++++

After the images faded and Yori recovered as much as she could, she ended her turn. She watched through narrowed eyes as Marik drew a card. Tentatively, she focused on her bracelet. It warmed against her skin.

And Marik rippled black.

“Looking for something?” he asked pleasantly, never raising his eyes from his cards.

Yori started. At the same time, her bracelet turned scalding. She hissed and shook her wrist.

Marik chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll find no ‘spirit of the rod’ as you would in quainter items.”

“What are you?” Yori ground out.

The Eye of Horus glowed to life on his forehead. “I am legion,” he said, grinning, “for I am many. Edrice and Amon. Husani. Khufu. Shani, Nefret, and Masudah. A big slice of Marik Ishtar, yes. And even a pinch of Seto Kaiba. Oh, yes. He once went by a different name, but the smell of his soul is no different.”

“You’re _insane,”_ Yori spat.

Marik winked. “Just you wait.”

He summoned Melchid the Four-Face Beast [1500/1200] to the field, then sacrificed it along with his new slime token to summon Masked Beast Des Guardius [3300/2500]. A familiar opponent—it was no surprise the Ghouls shared cards.

Yori gritted her teeth. The field was definitely in Marik’s favor.

“Let’s see more of your soul laid bare, shall we?” Marik licked his lips, then ordered Des Guardius to attack her jester.

Yori braced herself for the burning pain as her lifepoints dropped to 1800. When it disappeared, her jester made no sound beyond the jingle of bells.

The darkness around her flickered.

And the hair on Yori’s arms stood on end because _somehow_ she sensed what was coming before she saw.

“Ooh.” Marik shivered. “We’ve broken the surface to the real deep darks.”

Gold eyes appeared in the black.

Yori’s stomach hugged her spine.

But she couldn’t look away.

++++++++++

After the duel had become a shadow game, Yuugi had stayed in the real world, watching along with everyone else even if he was invisible. It was pointless; he couldn’t stop the shadow game or reach Yori inside it or do anything to help her win. But he still hoped she would somehow feel the support and know she wasn’t alone.

“Do you think she’s winning?” he asked in the silence that had fallen after Shadi’s departure. Yami offered no answer; there was really nothing to say.

The black dome shimmered.

“Here we go again,” Duke muttered.

“I thought this was supposed to be a game,” Serenity said quietly. “For fun.”

Joey’s expression pinched. He slung an arm around her shoulders. “It is a fun game. Sometimes it just brings the psychos out to play.”

“And the dogs,” Seto quipped.

Joey shot him a dirty look but left it at that.

Yuugi snuck a glance at Yami. The pharaoh had his jaw clenched, his arms folded. Yuugi knew the effort it was taking for Yami to hold himself back; he could feel it as a pressure in his own mind. He was also the only person who knew the real reason why, and despite the current circumstances, the thought almost made him smile. Even though Yami had liked Yori from the start, Yuugi had expected his friend to keep it bottled up forever. But people were full of surprises. It was Yuugi’s favorite thing about them, the reason he always tried to befriend enemies and see the best in unexpected places.

“Who’s that?” Anzu asked, jarring Yuugi back to the moment.

He looked up at the black dome. It wasn’t a scene this time—just a single guy, his black curls held in check by a bandana, his smile wide, his white shirt partly unbuttoned around a teal pendant.

“Yori’s boyfriend?” Serenity offered hesitantly.

Yami and Seto responded in unison with snorts of disgust. Yuugi peered curiously at Seto, but after the single reaction, the stoic CEO remained stoic.

“The heck’s with his eyes?” Joey tilted his head, squinting. “Are they . . . gold?”

The darkness flickered again. This time, it was the guy and Yori (blonde-haired and younger, but still Yori) sitting on a rooftop together. She shivered in the wind but smiled when he touched her bare knee as he pointed at a street below.

 _“Game’s starting,”_ he said, sparks of excitement in his striking eyes.

She craned her neck, then pursed her lips. _“It’s just a protest of some sort.”_

 _“Everything’s a game, pet.”_ He grabbed her hand, pulling her up with him. _“Let’s get a closer look.”_

She glanced at their joined hands and smiled more brightly than before, allowing him to tug her to the edge of the roof.

“I’d say boyfriend is a pretty safe bet,” Duke said.

Yuugi’s stomach churned. He stole another glance at Yami, but the pharaoh’s face was now a purposeful mask—the same one he wore against the harshest opponents.

The images flickered and twisted into a nighttime alley lit only by the slanted rays of a distant street lamp.

 _“Let’s keep it simple,”_ Gold-eyes said, smirking at a much larger man. _“How about an arm wrestle?”_

The burly thug let out a thundering laugh that echoed from the alley walls. He flexed both arms; a single bicep was bigger around than the gold-eyed boy’s head.

 _“So I can snap your bones like wooden chopsticks?”_ He cracked his neck. _“Done.”_

 _“I wouldn’t underestimate him,”_ Yori warned, perched on the lid of a nearby dumpster, heels bouncing lightly against the metal.

 _“You know I won’t, pet.”_ The gold-eyed boy fixed the collar of his bomber jacket, tugged the right sleeve up to his elbow.

 _“I wasn’t warning_ you.”

He flashed her a grin that she returned, and then he and the thug took opposite sides of a wooden crate and joined hands. The thug had advantage from the start, forcing the boy’s hand to tilt inch by unwavering inch. But the spark of enjoyment never left the boy’s face. When his arm was back almost halfway, he lifted his opposite hand and tossed open the edge of his jacket.

A living, breathing _cobra_ shot out of the leather to hiss in the thug’s face. The thug turned white as the moon. He shrieked (accompanied by a present-day Joey). Yori and the boy erupted in laughter. The cobra retreated, and the boy slammed the thug’s hand down on the crate.

 _“First rule of every game.”_ He slapped the thug’s cheek lightly while the man trembled. _“Have fun. Now”_ —his expression chilled from the edge of enjoyment to the edge of murder— _“never threaten me again or we’ll have a serious game with stakes you won’t survive.”_

The thug took off running.

“Well, this guy’s a real shining knight,” Tristan said. “Snake included. I totally get what she sees in him.”

Anzu punched him in the arm. “Shut up. It’s easy to judge from the outside.”

The gold-eyed boy caught Yori’s waist as she hopped off the dumpster, lowering her gently to the ground. She laced her fingers behind his neck, but he stepped away, pulling from her grasp.

 _“You know, Haku,”—_ the disappointment on her face was clear, but her voice came out lighthearted— _“I don’t understand why they keep trying. You’ve more than established your territory.”_

 _“Oh, pet.”_ The gold-eyed boy, Haku, smirked. “ _I’m no thug marking territory. I’m a god. People will always be drawn to challenge me; they can’t help it.”_

She shook her head, smiling. _“Well,_ god, _would you and your snake miss me if I went to the beach tomorrow? That concert—”_

 _“You’re not going,”_ he said.

Her smile faded. _“I know you’re not interested, but I thought—”_

He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her short. _“Settle it with a game. Win, you go; lose, you listen.”_

Once again, the disappointment was clear even as she kept her tone light. _“Fine, then we’ll duel. It’s about time I got a win off you anyway.”_

“Somethin’ tells me this ain’t a happy ending,” Joey said.

“How about everything we’ve seen on this shadowbox up ’til now,” Duke offered dryly.

“Are you okay?” Yuugi asked quietly, although there was no reason for him to keep his voice down.

Yami swallowed and kept silent.

When the images faded into black, nothing replaced them. The slideshow was over for the moment. But unless Yori could end the duel, it would be back. Yuugi could only imagine the stress of trying to duel while reliving the worst moments of his life. Yori was a hundred times stronger than he was. Even in his worst moments, he’d never been alone. He’d had Grandpa, his friends, Yami. . . . Until she’d come to Domino, Yori’d had no one.

But it would never be like that again.

//If you can hear me, sis, I believe in you. You can win this.//

He offered his support from a distance because it was all he could do, and he could only pray it was enough.

++++++++++

Yori’s fingers trembled. It wasn’t the most severe reaction she was having to reliving things with Haku, but it was the one she chose to focus on. Slowly, deliberately, she curled her fingers in, tightened her muscles until her knuckles turned white and her whole arm shook.

“Looks like you’re carrying that one close.” Marik grinned, and his eyes bulged. “Like a bad boyfriend, one might say.”

Yori relaxed her hand, released her grip, flexed her fingers outward.

“What a sheltered life you have lived,” Marik went on, “to have a little boy and his pet as your greatest fear.”

“Coming from the guy who lives in a tomb,” Yori ground out.

Her fingers still trembled.

“Would you like to know my greatest fear?” Marik raised his Millennium Rod, stared tenderly into its hollow eye. His tongue snaked across his lips.

“I don’t need to hear you brag about being fearless.”

“I am everyone.” He licked the eye. “And at the heart of everyone is the same fear—vulnerability. Exposure. The darkness has revealed that, too.” He jabbed the rod at her. “I wonder what your dear little friends thought of the picture show.”

Yami.

Yami had seen.

Yori’s heart stopped.

Marik doubled over, cackling.

She hated him more than ever.

“My turn,” she snarled.

She drew a card, but for a second, she couldn’t even see it. All she could see was Yami.

She should have just told him when she’d had a chance. Explained everything.

“F-f-f-frozen, are we?” Marik snickered.

Yori wanted to run.

But there was nowhere to run to.

She blinked her vision clear, and when it was Dante who came into view, she almost managed to breathe again. If she could just take care of Marik, she could figure the rest out. She hadn’t lost her best card to the ocean, and she wouldn’t lose the best thing that had ever happened to her either. Not to Haku and not to this shadow game. She had everything she needed in order to win.

One facedown card had been patiently waiting on the field since her opening turn. The time had come. She pressed the button next to it.

“Activate spell card: Magician’s Release!”

White light burst in the darkness, bringing with it Dante. He rested his forehead against his black staff and smiled back at her. And it was funny how even though she’d only seen him projected in his spellcaster form once, he was still a familiar, comforting face.

“Just not good enough.” Marik grinned.

It was true; with no spell cards on the field, Dante was only at 3100 attack, while Marik’s Des Guardius was at 3300.

But she wasn’t finished yet; Magician’s Release wasn’t the only equip card Dante could currently take.

She slid One-Shot Wand into play.

“This equip only helps a spellcaster for one attack.” She smirked. “But one attack is all he needs.”

Dante’s black staff disappeared, replaced by a white wand tipped in a gold half-moon. His attack rose to 3900.

Marik snarled like a terrier trying to ward off a great dane; he was just as successful. Dante lifted his wand, and a beam of red light severed Des Guardius from head to clawed toe. Marik scratched at the wound on his arm, spreading fresh blood in streaks. His lifepoints dropped to 2100.

Dante’s wand disappeared, replaced by his original staff, and Jade Assassin stepped up to the plate.

“Attack him directly,” Yori ordered, voice empty.

Her assassin melted into the darkness only to reappear behind Marik. She sank two knives into either side of his ribcage while he howled in pain.

As the assassin returned to Yori’s side of the field, Marik’s lifepoints fell to 200. He panted for air, clutching his chest. Then he dissolved into giggles. Yori narrowed her eyes.

“One . . . more show?” he managed, turning his wide, red-rimmed eyes to the darkness.

Unlike the previous scenes, there was no screaming. No fight. No flight.

Instead, a line of soldiers stood in eerie calm and faced the white-robed man with the chilling blue eyes. Except one of his eyes had been replaced by gold. The Millennium Eye. Blood marked the cheek below it like tears.

 _“Men . . .”_ His voice choked with emotion, and he paused to clear it. _“We have done a great service today. To our pharaoh. To our kingdom.”_

And in hollow echoes, the men repeated, _“To our pharaoh. To our kingdom.”_

_“Now, you will offer your final service.”_

A monster burst from the ground, shattering the calm. It clawed through the soldiers, severing limbs, gnawing faces, leaping from target to target. Some soldiers screamed, some ran, but others stood deadly still. Just waiting.

Marik shuddered. He bit a knuckle, grinning around it.

Yori’s heart sank as she realized Yami could see all of this, too.

“We’ve both done enough damage,” she whispered. “Let’s end this.”

She had one card left in her hand, a trap that could force all of Marik’s monsters into permanent defense mode—but she couldn’t activate it without discarding two cards, so it was useless for the time being. Marik was hanging on by a fingernail, and she would have given anything for just one more attack, but for now, there was nothing she could do. She and Dante would just have to stick it out together. He’d never failed her before; he never would.

“Turn end,” she announced.

Marik’s smile split through to his skull. There could be only one reason for it.

Yori swallowed.

He played Monster Reborn, brought his Des Guardius back to life. But he didn’t attack Dante; he tributed his masked beast along with his two slime tokens.

Three monsters.

He was summoning his god.

“Are you prepared?” he hissed.

A ball of blinding gold light formed in the sky.

“Didn’t realize the sun god was an actual sun,” Yori said, shielding her eyes. The taunt fell flat, not that it mattered, since Marik made no response. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Don’t tell me you pray to it,” she said.

He began chanting a low rhythm that sent out ripples in the dark. The sound of it grated on Yori’s soul, cold and hard like diamonds. She took a step back.

She started to reach out to Yami with her bracelet, felt it warm against her wrist—

But what would she say? She stopped, took a firm fighting stance.

And waited.

Marik’s eyes snapped open.

At the same moment, the cry of a great bird rent the darkness. Wings of light opened from the ball, pressing against the black dome, cracking it against the sky. A golden head rose toward the unseen sun, and beyond it, Yori saw the stars.

Ra, the Great Sun God.

With 4300 attack points.


	18. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a chapter mixup where I'd accidentally skipped chapter 14. That's been fixed now. I was also several chapters behind. Now we're all caught up. Just as a heads up, FFN is my main site (username Ghost Wulf), and I have other stories available there that I don't cross-post on AO3 (such as a companion Halloween oneshot to Coming Home). I prefer FFN for reader/author interactions, but I also understand not everyone has an FFN account and many people prefer AO3 for reading, which is why I have Coming Home on here and will continue to update. I just might not be on time every week.

Yuugi had watched his best friend go from frying pan to fire across the course of a duel he couldn’t see. When the latest images mentioned the pharaoh specifically, Yami looked ready to call it a day, let Yuugi handle the rest, maybe retreat into the shadows forever.

But he didn’t.

“We’ll get answers about your past,” Yuugi said. “Shadi told us we just need the items and the god cards. Well, and a plane ticket to Egypt, so I guess I’ll need a loan on my future allowance. The next six years should do it.”

He tried for a smile. Yami didn’t seem to relax any, but his eyes flickered in Yuugi’s direction, so he was listening.

And honestly, anything was better than the awful silence waiting for the next tragedy to broadcast across the black.

“She’ll win,” Yuugi said. “She’ll beat Marik.”

She had to.

But maybe Marik would be even worse if he lost.

A rope of color snaked across the black. Yuugi watched with hope. They’d seen more from Marik than Yori, which he could only hope meant she had the upper hand in the duel. If this was Marik again, it might be the end of it all.

His heart fell when a now-familiar set of gold eyes appeared.

“Man, someone tell me how this shadow thing works.” Joey shook his head. “This is three and three now. Are they tied?”

“The game will only make sense to the players,” Yami said quietly.

“Like with Pegasus.” Although Anzu was looking at Yami when she spoke, she had to look through Yuugi to do so, and the pretend eye contact was almost comforting. “When you dueled him, there was this fog thing, too.”

The duel against Pegasus had been a battle of mental endurance. Yori’s duel with Marik did seem to be the same variety—no one could stare down disturbing reminders of their past and duel with the same focus as before.

But Yori would make it work.

She had to.

An image of Yori appeared in the black. Still blonde. Still young.

 _“You never take it off.”_ Haku grabbed Yori’s wrist, lifted it, and swiped his thumb across her bracelet. _“Afraid I’ll steal it?”_

 _“No.”_ Her eyes betrayed her. _“Would you?”_

He smirked, dropping her wrist.

She reached up and tugged on the black cord around his neck, pulling his teal pendant from under his shirt. _“You never take your necklace off.”_

 _“Then how about a game?”_ He ran a finger along the edge of her jaw, down her neck to her collar bone. _“Your bracelet, my pendant. Winner take all.”_

His expression almost looked teasing, but something in his tone hurt Yuugi’s spine.

Yori took a step back.

 _“You’re a coward.”_ He smiled. _“You always have been. Too afraid to risk losing that one big thing.”_

“Bastard,” Yami snarled, so quiet Yuugi almost didn’t hear him.

 _“I’ll make us some dinner,”_ Yori said. She kept her face calm, but her voice cracked.

Yuugi wrapped his arms around himself, and it felt like his insides did the same.

She turned, disappeared into the black. The colors swirled, and she was back again. She stood next to a dining room table, trembling. The cobra was on the table in front of her, curled around scattered white figures that looked like playing pieces for a game. It swayed gently, hood flared, fangs exposed. Haku sat calmly at the other side, reclined in his chair.

 _“Sorry, pet.”_ He didn’t look sorry. Didn’t sound sorry. _“Rules are absolute.”_

A tear slipped down Yori’s cheek.

_“Mehen.”_

At the word of its owner, the cobra struck. Yori flinched away, raising an arm to shield her face as she turned, and the fangs sank into her arm just above the elbow. She screamed in pain. She reached for the cobra with her other hand but stopped short. Instead she just stood there while her boyfriend slowly stood and approached her. He wound the snake’s body around his arm, then tapped it once on the head. It finally released Yori’s arm, and he draped it over the back of his neck like a scarf. Like it hadn’t just pumped venom into his girlfriend at his command.

Yori’s arm dripped blood around the puncture wounds. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t move. After the first scream, she hadn’t made a sound.

 _“You can catch a taxi at the corner,”_ Haku said, like he was giving her directions to a fun landmark on their vacation. “ _Next time, don’t question me. Or at least play your pieces better.”_

“She has that scar,” Anzu whispered, eyes wide in horror. “I was still hoping this was . . . fake. Something in the game. But I’ve seen . . .”

“It’s why she doesn’t usually wear T-shirts, isn’t it?” Tristan shook his head. “I saw, too. Right before the first duel.”

“Tell you what,” Joey growled. “You point me to Goldy-eyes here, and I’ll give him some scars to match.”

 _“Maybe I won’t come back,”_ Yori said.

Haku smiled. He stepped closer, cupped her face in his hands. _“So you don’t really love me?”_

Her jaw trembled. Her eyes darted to the cobra around his neck, so limp it seemed lifeless.

 _“You can’t blame others for your loss, pet.”_ Haku brushed her cheek with his thumb. _“You’re the one who played the game. Now._ _Better hurry to the hospital before that burning spreads and your respiratory system collapses. See you in a bit.”_

He turned away.

Yuugi always tried to see the good in people, always tried to give the benefit of the doubt to even the worst enemies.

But looking at Haku.

For the first time.

He didn’t want to.

_“Stop it.”_

The images had changed again. Yori had red hair this time, brighter than it was now, barely long enough to tuck behind her ears. She stood in the mouth of an alley between Haku and another girl.

 _“She didn’t mean it,”_ Yori said, hand out, eyes fierce. _“Let her go.”_

 _“I did mean it!”_ the girl shouted, trying to force her way past Yori. She couldn’t have been more than eight. Her hair looked like it had never seen clean water, and her clothes were no better off. _“You almost killed my brother!”_

 _“So you’d like a cobra bite of your own.”_ Haku shrugged. _“Or for me to suffer the same fate. Fair stakes. Name your game.”_

 _“Stop it!”_ Yori repeated. _“She’s a kid!”_

_“I’m as versed in children’s games as anything else. It won’t be a problem.”_

_“How can you—”_ Yori cut off abruptly in order to catch the girl as she lunged forward. She grabbed the girl by both shoulders and shook her hard. _“This is not going to help your brother. Go home. Right now.”_

The girl took a swing at her face. Yori dodged and swung back, but hers connected, knocking the girl flat on the ground.

 _“Get lost!”_ she screamed. She stepped forward again, arm raised for a second strike.

The girl’s eyes widened, and she scooted backward, pressing a hand to her split lip. When her fingers came away bloody, she scrambled to her feet and took off running.

 _“Hmm.”_ Haku tilted his head, peered after the girl. _“You got in my way. You’ve never done that before.”_

 _“Fight thugs all you want”_ —Yori’s voice cracked— _“but not kids. Not when she didn’t understand what she was risking.”_

He adjusted the collar of his jacket. Sighed. _“We’ve had a good run, but I’ve felt this coming for a while now.”_

Yuugi’s stomach twisted.

“Oh no,” Anzu whispered.

“It can’t get worse than the snake,” Tristan said. “Can it?”

Yori frowned. _“What do you mean?”_

Her boyfriend stepped forward and gripped her shoulder, craning his neck as he looked down the street.

 _“Is she gone?”_ he asked.

Yori turned to look.

And just as she did—

—he pulled a small knife from his pocket and drove it into her back.

Yuugi flinched away in horror, but he could hear Yori scream. Cries of outrage and horror rose from the people around him.

Except Yami, who stood like a statue and didn’t breathe a sound. He may have seemed completely unaffected.

But Yuugi could see the red in his eyes.

 _“I don’t take betrayal lightly,”_ Haku said, holding her upright as she sagged. _“But I could have killed you. Remember that.”_

He released her, and Yori dropped to the sidewalk, gasping for breath, clutching at a knife she couldn’t reach.

 _“Consider this our tragic breakup. You have twenty-four hours to get out of my town, or I’ll finish the job, and it would be a shame to end our game that way.”_ He stepped over her without a second glance. _“So long, pet.”_

As the images faded to black, no one said anything. There was nothing to say. Just the awkward silence of being privy to something personal with no way to ease it.

Yuugi glanced at Yami, but his best friend had tilted away, his expression hidden now.

Yuugi didn’t want to wonder, didn’t want his mind to even consider—but he couldn’t help it. Yori never talked about herself. If it weren’t for the shadow game, would she have opened up at all? She’d shown up to the finals looking like she’d come straight from a hospital, and she hadn’t said a word about why. Her whole life, she’d faced things alone, and apparently the one relationship she’d tried for had been a nightmare.

But that had changed in Domino. Didn’t she realize they were friends? Didn’t she know she could trust them, that they would never turn on her no matter what?

Even with an entire group of friends pulling for her, did she feel completely alone?

Yuugi couldn’t cry as a spirit, but he felt the burn nonetheless.

Then Seto spoke—not to them but to the little radio in his collar. “Bring the broadcast back online.”

Several people gave startled outbursts, including Yuugi.

“Kaiba, ya crazy?!” Joey pointed at the dome of fog again. “You want _your_ life up on the big screen for the whole planet?”

“It isn’t even right for us to see,” Serenity said, fierce but quiet, her eyes lit with the same fire as her brother.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Anzu added, “just for your stupid tournament.”

Seto cast a scowl in their direction. “This duel is over.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you can magically see through the big bad dome now?”

Seto’s scowl deepened. “I don’t have to. After all that, either Yori’s broken or Marik’s about to be. Either way, this duel is over.”

Yuugi recognized the truth of Seto’s insight, and he could only pray it wasn’t the first option.

//We’re here for you, Yori.// He wrapped his arms tighter around himself. She’d stood through worse than Marik. She could handle this. But she shouldn’t have to do it alone. //I’m here for you.//

If he could stand with her on the field, he would. If he could take an attack for her, he would. If he could spare her _any_ pain after everything she’d already faced, he would.

And just as he had the thought, the world turned gold.

++++++++++

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­There was one card in Yori’s deck that could have beaten Ra—Transforming Avatar [0/0], the card she’d won from Daichi. If she could have summoned it, it would have taken on the form and points of Ra. An attack would have destroyed them both and cleared Ra from the field.

But not only did Yori not have a chance to summon it; she never even got a chance to draw it.

Marik summoned his god, and then he used a magic card to remove her assassin from the field for one battle phase, leaving Dante as her only defender. Another spell card granted him a second attack for the price of half his lifepoints. The second attack would have gone to his weakest monster, but with only Ra on his field, it fell to Ra.

Two attacks, and only Dante on her side. Her spellcaster stood firm and resolute, burning crimson eyes fixed on the god.

But he was no match.

Ra incinerated him in a beam of scorching white light.

His scream broke Yori’s heart.

The images of Haku that followed broke her spirit to match.

“I see now.” Marik cackled and slapped a hand to his heart. “It isn’t the boy and his pet. It’s _you;_ the fool who fell for it.”

Yori bit her lip as it trembled, but even when it drew blood, it couldn’t stop the tears.

Her lifepoints were at 800.

Nothing stood between her and the god who’d killed her once already.

Marik spread his hands wide, face glowing in the light of Ra. He raised an arm, pointed a finger directly at her chest. And above him, that towering bird of light let out another cry.

 _I’ll survive,_ she told herself. She’d survived everything life had thrown at her so far. But even as she had the thought, part of her wasn’t sure. Part of her wondered if the burning in her back was from a knife that was still there.

Ra opened his beak, and a small sun began to grow in the cavity, gaining size, gaining brilliance.

Marik shrieked with laughter. “Attack! _Attack! ATTACK!”_

The ball of light erupted into a beam—

And suddenly, Yuugi was there, floating before her as a spirit, his face inches from hers.

She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.

He smiled.

—and Ra’s attack engulfed them both in heat. Yori gasped and squeezed her eyes shut against the blinding light. It was like someone had lifted an active volcano and poured it over her head. The burn drenched her bones, evaporated the air from her lungs.

And then it was over.

And she was still standing.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw Yuugi on the ground in front of her, unconscious.

++++++++++

The only thing Yami could discern about the progress of the duel was that Yori and Marik had an equal number of life-images shown, which meant he could hope the scores were tied. He wished he knew the rules of the shadow game or the consequences of losing.

But he knew nothing—a fact that had been rather brought home to him with the most recent images on the dome.

Yami barely noticed when Yuugi disappeared. A corner of his mind told him that he should have been more compassionate, more understanding to Yuugi’s attempts to reach him, yet it was hard for him to offer any words when he wasn’t sure what he should think.

A golden ray burst through the black, followed quickly by another and another. The shadow dome splintered around an eruption of light that sank Yami’s heart to his stomach.

“Ra,” Kaiba breathed.

The light engulfed everyone on the platform. After it cleared, Yami tried to blink the spots from his vision enough to see what had happened. It took him a few seconds of trying to find the black dome to realize it was gone.

“Yori!” he shouted, but she gave no answer. Then he saw her, fallen to her knees on the field, hunched forward. Maybe hurt.

She’d lost a shadow game.

And Marik, crossing the field with slow, deliberate steps, had almost reached her.

Yami raced for the edge of the platform, shoving his way past Tristan and Joey. In his mind, he saw the Ghoul he’d challenged to a shadow game, eyes terrified, ready to fall into never-ending black. He saw the knife thrower. He saw Pandora.

Yori raised her head as Marik reached her. She started to stand, but Marik grabbed her by the throat.

At the same moment, his other hand sank the pointed shaft of the Millennium Rod into her stomach.

 _“YORI!”_ Yami screamed.

Marik lifted her by the neck, plucked a card from her Duel Disk, and tossed her aside.

Yami launched himself at the dueling platform, hauling himself up and over the edge. Marik turned to meet him, teeth bared, veins bulging. Yami swung hard, and his fist connected with the Egyptian’s jaw. Marik stumbled to the side, coughing and cackling all in the same sound.

“Feisty pharaoh,” he hissed, patting his jaw. Shadows howled in Yami’s ears, but he forced himself to turn from Marik. Instead, he dropped to his knees next to Yori.

The moment he touched her shoulder, she raised her head, her expression almost groggy.

“I’ve got you,” Yami said gently, brushing his hand over her cheek. He scooped her into his arms, stumbling a little as he rose. The referee had already started lowering the dueling platform; it was nearly on the ground.

“Kaiba!” Yami shouted, but Kaiba was already standing with the elevator open.

“There’s a med bay waiting,” the CEO said. His expression was blank, almost careless, and in that instant, Yami could have hit him, too. Instead, he hurried to the elevator, holding Yori as tightly as he could—as if the strength of his hold could force the situation to turn out all right.

The others had already piled in the elevator as well, so as the doors closed, Marik stood alone on the roof of the blimp. In the final sliver of light, Yami saw the Egyptian wave, and then the doors closed, and his stomach dropped with the elevator.

The med bay wasn’t far, but Yami felt a fist around his heart as he approached it, squeezing tighter with every step. Three staff members had him put Yori on a table—the same one he’d been examined on earlier—then told him to stand back. Every part of him was cold without her. He stared at her face, her colorless skin, her half-lidded eyes. One of the doctors tried to convince him to wait outside the room with the others, but when he met her gaze, she abruptly stopped talking and turned back to the table.

“I don’t understand,” one of the doctors said. “Mr. Kaiba reported this girl was stabbed?”

The third doctor turned to Yami. “Can you confirm the location of the wound?”

Yami’s throat constricted. “Her—her stomach.”

“That’s what Mr. Kaiba said.” The first doctor gave what appeared to be a shrug. “Never expected him to be fooled by his own holograms.”

“What do you mean?” Yami demanded.

“Your friend’s fine,” the doctor said, motioning him forward.

Yami took a hesitant step, and for the first time, he looked directly at Yori’s stomach, his own stomach shrinking back against his spine as he did so.

But there was nothing there.

The doctors had lifted her shirt, which wasn’t torn or bloodstained, and the skin beneath was smooth and unbroken.

“Pupils are constricting,” the second doctor said, leaning over Yori’s eyes with a small flashlight. “Seems she’s just dazed. Probably overexertion or a reaction to the intense holographic effects.”

The first doctor gave Yami a disapproving look. “Next time, try not to get so worked up over a game, alright?”

“I don’t . . .” Yami’s breath ran out before he could finish.

The third doctor touched his elbow, steering him gently toward the door. “Why don’t you let your friend rest—she should be fine in a few minutes.”

So Yami was left standing in the hallway as the door slid closed behind him.

“Yami!” Joey shouted, rushing toward him. The others weren’t far behind, except Kaiba, who stood stoically against the wall.

“How is she?” Anzu asked.

“Will she be okay?” Serenity added.

Yami didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. A small sigh of relief passed through the group.

“Good thing Kaiba has onboard doctors,” Ryou said quietly.

“Try ‘good thing Kaiba lets psychos into his tournament.’” Duke turned a fierce glare on Kaiba. “Exactly what kind of championship are you running here—Battle Royale?”

Kaiba said nothing, and his face remained expressionless.

Mokuba wavered at his side, and Yami could see how red the boy’s eyes were.

“Seto isn’t responsible for what Marik did,” Mokuba said, but his voice trembled.

It was Mokuba’s reaction that spurred Yami to finally open his mouth.

“She isn’t hurt,” he said.

All eyes turned back to him.

Tristan frowned. “What do you mean, man?”

“She . . . isn’t hurt. She wasn’t stabbed.”

More frowns.

“Yuugi, we were all there.” Duke looked around for support, and several others nodded. “We saw it.”

Yami made a small, helpless gesture with his hands. “The doctors said . . .”

Kaiba shouldered away from the wall, stepping around Yami. The door slid open, and he entered. It closed behind him.

“So what happened?” Anzu asked hesitantly.

Yami forced his eyes away from the door to her, but before he could speak, he saw something over her shoulder that stopped him. His face darkened.

The others followed his gaze, and the silence grew heavy.

“You better beat it,” Joey growled. “Or I’ll throw you off the top of this fancy blimp.”

“We both will,” Tristan said, one hand already curled in a fist.

Marik’s lips spread wide. He held both hands up, wiggling his empty fingers.

“No blood on my hands, Pharaoh,” he said. “How about on yours?”

“I will crush you, Marik.” Yami tasted the edge of every word.

“Grind my bones to dust and set my blood in gold.” Marik ran his tongue over his exposed teeth. “But you’ve sung that tune before, and now here we are, spinning the merry-go-round for another whirl.”

Duke glared. “How about you go be insane somewhere we can’t hear you.”

“3,000 years,” Marik continued. “Maybe this time, we’re too heavy. Maybe this time, we break it all.”

And for some reason, behind his words, Yami could hear the screams of the people he’d seen earlier than night, an unknown village massacred at the hands of unknown soldiers.

“See you in the finals.” Marik winked, then turned and headed down a different hall.


	19. Choices

When Seto stepped into the room, the staff bowed their heads respectfully, and the lead doctor addressed him.

“Mr. Kaiba, the patient is stable and uninjured. There appears to have been some miscommunication about her injuries.”

“So I heard,” Seto said quietly. He moved to the side of the table, but it didn’t take more than a glance to see that Yuugi’s report had been true—Yori had her eyes open, watching the doctor currently taking her blood pressure, and there was no indication she’d been hurt at all.

When he moved to her side, she looked up at him. Her eyes seemed a little hazy, a little empty of their usual vibrancy.

The doctor taking her blood pressure gave a report and unstrapped Yori’s arm, moving back to give Seto more room. As she stepped away, she confirmed, “Her vitals are all fine.”

Seto nodded acknowledgement, but he kept his eyes on Yori’s.

“You’re okay?” he finally asked.

He could still see Marik—

Her shoulders rose in the smallest shrug.

Seto turned to the doctors. “Thank you for responding promptly. You can return to your other patient.”

He didn’t miss the glance they all shared; he was well aware that bringing doctors had been protocol for emergencies, nothing more, yet they’d now dealt with four collapses in the semi-finals alone.

One by one, they disappeared out the door.

The only sound in the room was the faraway hum of the lights.

“I should have stopped this after the dock,” Seto finally said. His throat itched.

Yori took a long, slow inhale.

“If I remember,” she said, and though her voice was quiet, it wasn’t hoarse, “you were busy rushing me to the hospital. You have this funny habit of getting me medical attention right away.”

“At the hospital . . .” Seto hesitated, but he was already in, and she was already looking at him, waiting. “The nurse said you have scars from a collapsed-lung surgery. Was it . . . ?”

“You saw.” Though it was almost imperceptible, she winced. Looked away. “Everyone saw.”

He could also see her cobra scar, since the doctors had removed her jacket—Yuugi’s jacket, he corrected himself. That exchange during the first duel hadn’t escaped his notice. Neither had the way Yuugi had carried her to the med bay, holding her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Seto cleared his throat. He almost said, “At least you didn’t get stabbed again today,” which would have been the most asinine thing to ever leave his mouth.

Instead, he said, “If I could disqualify Marik, I would.”

He didn’t go into details, couldn’t have explained all the nuances even if he tried, but he felt like he owed her something.

She could have called him out on being tournament officiator, but she didn’t.

“It wouldn’t stop him anyway,” she said. “At least with the tournament, there’s some structure.”

“‘If you’re in the tiger’s cage, at least you know where the bars are.’” Seto shook his head. “Gozaburo used to say it, and I thought it was nonsense. Now I understand.”

Yori suddenly caught her breath like she was in pain, pressing one hand to her head.

“What is it?” Seto glanced at the door, ready to call for a doctor.

But she relaxed and lowered her arm. “Just a headache.”

Even if she hadn’t been stabbed, she’d still taken on the full attack of a god card. Seto gave a relieved sigh.

“Thanks for worrying, though.”

No one had ever thanked him for worrying before. He wasn’t sure he ever _had_ worried over anyone except Mokuba.

Yori shifted on the table, raising herself onto her elbows. In the moment before she could sit up on her own, Seto extended his hand.

With a smile, she took it.

He felt a tickle in all his joints simultaneously, as if his entire body were newly alive. Her hand in his seemed to reverse the blood flow in his system, sending everything pounding back into his heart.

His smile matched hers.

She pulled herself upright and took another slow, deep breath, her other hand pressed to her stomach. Seto opened his mouth, but before he could speak—

“Where’s Yuugi?” she asked.

Seto dropped her hand and stepped back. His smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Seto managed.

She relaxed. “Good. I thought he—I don’t know. Things are kind of fuzzy.”

He swallowed hard. “You should rest.”

She gave him a rueful smile, swinging her legs down from the table. “I think I’ll get plenty of rest now that I’m out of the running, wouldn’t you say?”

She stood, but then she swayed. Despite himself, Seto was at her side again in a moment, his hands awkwardly raised, ready to support her.

“No, I’m fine. I just—”

Without warning, her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed. Seto barely managed to catch her before her head hit the table.

 _“Doctor!”_ he bellowed.

But just as quickly, her eyes were open again.

And a third eye glowed on her forehead.

“Hands off me, priest,” she snarled, wrenching herself away from him while he stood frozen, his normally quick mind scrambling to catch up.

The door opened, and Yuugi came rushing in, followed by his fan club.

“Ah, _Pharaoh.”_ Yori swept him a grand bow. “Didn’t know you’d stooped to keeping company with lowlifes.”

Yuugi’s shocked stare mirrored Seto’s.

“Well, she’s actin’ very”—Wheeler gulped—“Marik-y, ain’t she?”

The lead doctor entered behind them. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a phrase Seto voiced often.

“How far you’ve fallen, eh?” Yori pushed on, her sharp, glinting eyes locked relentlessly on Yuugi. “Where’s your kingdom now? Where’s your _priceless_ kingdom _now?”_

She launched herself at Yuugi, who was apparently too shocked to respond in time. They both went tumbling to the floor. One of the girls shrieked, and Wheeler yelled, “Cut it out, Yori!”

Together, the doctor and Seto grabbed Yori’s arms, dragging her off Yuugi. Seto was no weakling, but it took more force than it should have to lift a girl half his size. And the whole time, Yori was screaming and snarling and clawing at Yuugi like a wild animal.

“Fuyumi, get me a sedative!” the doctor shouted.

Yuugi, for his part, lay stunned, his left cheek scratched to the point of blood. His friends got him back on his feet while the doctor and Seto pinned Yori to the table.

The doctor grunted with effort. “Hold her!”

“Does it look like I’m not trying?!” Seto shot back.

“Filthy priest!” Yori shrieked, taking a swing at Seto’s face. He grabbed her wrist, still trying to keep her legs pinned with his other arm.

One of the other doctors rushed to the table, loaded syringe in hand. As she moved it toward the girl’s shoulder, Yori wrenched her right arm away from the first doctor and grabbed the syringe, shattering it. Liquid splashed across her shirt, and blood and glass showed at the edges of her fist. She laughed, her infected eyes wide and wild.

“Another—” The first doctor’s words were cut short as Yori slammed her bloodied fist into his throat. He stumbled back, coughing. Seto had to release her legs to grab both arms, and then she kicked her entire body in the air, launching herself off the table at him. He fell backward, and as his spine hit the hard tile, he lost both his air and his grip.

Yori rolled off him, lunging at Yuugi again. Seto barely managed to twist and catch her leg, dragging her back. He pinned her beneath him.

“Yori!” he said desperately, trying to catch her eyes, trying to find any way to break through.

For just an instant, her eyes locked on his, and he felt a sudden heat in his hands, like instead of holding her wrists, he was holding something he couldn’t see. Something powerful. Something dangerous. The ground beneath them disappeared, replaced by familiar carpet. Seto recognized the feel of home and knew if he looked up, he would see the bookcases of Gozaburo’s library. From the corner of his eye, he could already see the solid oak desk where he’d spent years slaving, where each tedious project had been one more stepping stone on his path to success.

He swallowed hard, and he didn’t look up.

After another moment, the library faded, bringing him back to the airship’s med bay.

The glowing eye faded from Yori’s forehead. She relaxed beneath him. Her eyelids slid closed. Though he readied himself for another bout of insanity, it never came. Finally, he edged off her and climbed to his feet.

The silence in the room was suffocating. Seto looked to Yuugi, but Yuugi’s eyes were locked on Yori’s unmoving form.

“Better get her sedated,” the doctor croaked, “before it happens again.”

“What was that?” Anzu asked, her eyes red-rimmed and wide.

Seto wished he had an answer. He didn’t like the certainty in the doctor’s words that it would happen again, and he didn’t like the certainty in his own mind that the doctor was right.

He lifted Yori—a much easier task than before. Now she felt small and fragile, just like she had on the dock. He settled her on the table, and the doctors prepped another syringe. It wasn’t until after they’d administered the sedative that Yuugi spoke, startling everyone.

“Every shadow game has consequences.” His voice sounded hollow. The streaked blood on his face looked like war paint. “Forgive me. I must speak with Marik.”

He turned and left. His friends hovered, seemingly unsure what to do next.

Seto assumed his CEO voice. “Private quarters were refreshed by my staff during the final duel. If anything is lacking, you can speak to a maid. We’ll arrive at our destination in the morning, and the finals will take place immediately after breakfast.”

“Will they?” Duke asked harshly. “Will this really continue?”

And Seto wasn’t sure.

But he wasn’t allowed to not be sure.

So he narrowed his eyes. “I’d suggest everyone find their rooms now.”

It was going to be a long night.

++++++++++

Yami found Marik down the hallway where he’d disappeared earlier. The Egyptian was muttering to himself and swinging the Millennium Rod back and forth like a baseball player warming up. As Yami approached, the other man turned abruptly to meet him, holding the rod up like a barrier.

“Don’t touch me, Pharaoh, don’t—” His words turned to a guttural snarl, and he clutched one hand over his right eye, digging his nails into the skin. For just a moment, that side of his face twisted into a terrified expression, breaking from the left like a prisoner trying to escape.

“Marik?” Yami asked in sudden realization.

Marik lurched forward, right eye bulging wide. “Help m—!”

Then he jerked to the left, stumbled, caught himself on the wall. After a few seconds, his shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled. When he righted himself and stepped away, he was one cohesive Marik again—not the original Marik, but Yami couldn’t bring himself to feel much sympathy at the moment.

“Forgive my technical difficulties,” Marik said. Yami noted with a small bit of satisfaction that his jaw had already begun to bruise. “When it’s worth my time, it seems I’ll have to skin a priest.”

 _“Filthy priest!”_ Yori’s voice shrieked in his mind. Yami flinched.

“Kaiba,” he whispered. When Ishizu had shown him the ancient tablet with the god monsters, there had been two figures facing off in the center of it. One had been himself. He’d suspected the other looked like Kaiba. Now he was certain.

There were so many mysteries to the past, and every time he turned around, someone new added to the chaos.

Marik’s eyes practically sparkled. “Remember that, did you? Or did someone tell you?”

Yami ground his teeth together until he could feel the sound in his skull.

“The heir presumptive to your throne. Too bad that didn’t work out for him.” Marik giggled. “Now, who could have told you anything about our priest? Could have been stuffy Ishizu. Maybe, maybe. But those tombkeepers, they’re such a secretive bunch. More likely it was the little red losing slave.”

“So that’s the penalty?” Yami kept his voice slow and controlled. “Yori lost, and now you’ve enslaved her mind.”

Marik touched his heart, his face crinkled in humor. “Oh, Pharaoh. I may be half Marik, but I’m not nearly so boring. The little girl’s infected. You could say she caught what’s going around.”

He tapped his own forehead with the Millennium Rod, running it down his face to his chest.

“Who knows,” he continued, “how long it will take before the infection roots out all that remains of the original.”

The puzzle warmed with heat, and Yami took a steadying breath.

“Upset you, have I?” Marik took a step closer, leering down.

“We’re going to have a shadow duel, Marik.” Slow and controlled.

“Oh, good, I was hoping we would. But, then, I haven’t given you much choice, have I?” Marik extended the rod, pressed the orb of it into Yami’s sternum. “You’re not in charge anymore, Pharaoh. Now you bow to your subjects.”

Yami didn’t flinch. “When I win, Yori’s penalty is rescinded.”

“Setting stakes, are we?” Marik flicked one wing of the rod against Yami’s throat, then withdrew it, twirling it in his hand. “Why not play in the dark, let the shadows decide—isn’t that your usual method? I’ve heard things down there. All the whispers.” He stared pointedly at the Millennium Puzzle. “Dark pharaoh’s darker than ever.”

The puzzle pulsed with a faint glow, and Yami felt the warmth in his forehead. He breathed slowly, holding the power at bay. If he began a shadow game in the heat of the moment, he would have no control over it, and Yori would be stuck with her penalty until it played out. Maybe forever, if Marik’s threat was to be believed.

From his darkest memory, Yami heard the screams of the death row criminal who’d held Anzu hostage, the man the shadows had burned alive.

He knew firsthand that the shadows could kill.

Under Marik’s direction, they would.

Marik’s lips twitched. “I could tell you about your past, you know. Wouldn’t you like to hear it?”

Yami’s heart stuttered.

Marik lowered the rod, smiled invitingly. “That’s what you came all this way for, what motivated you through this entire contest: the nameless pharaoh’s memories locked away in the Valley of Kings. But I could tell you about your life, Pharaoh. Wouldn’t you like to know your father’s name? Wouldn’t you like to know the age at which you ruled our kingdom?”

Yami struggled to keep his breathing controlled. There was a haze in the room, thick in his ears, thick in his throat.

“Wouldn’t you like to know if you had a queen?” Marik pressed on, his voice low and seductive. “Wouldn’t you like to know the truth of the Millennium Items?”

The heat from the puzzle was in his blood now, and it whispered with the voice of shadows.

“Leave the girl,” Marik said. “I’ll tell you. Right now.”

Yami swallowed hard.

Slowly and deliberately, he said, “When I win, Yori’s penalty is rescinded.”

Marik’s face twisted.

“Coward!” he hissed. “Hiding for 3,000 years and hiding still. You don’t want to know who you are, no. That’s why you erased your own name. Erased it from existence. If you couldn’t live with the price, _Pharaoh,_ maybe you shouldn’t have made the purchase!”

He swung the rod, but Yami leaned away. Marik stumbled, then paced to the wall, muttering to himself, hands twitching. Yami stared down at the puzzle. If Marik’s words were true, if he was the nameless pharaoh by choice, had he done it to hide?

Or did he have something to protect?

“Your price is the girl, fine.” Marik turned back. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless. No smiles, no tongue, no bulging veins. Just a blank slate, like staring into a headstone that had yet to be carved. “My price is your choice.”

Goosebumps crossed Yami’s skin. He waited in silence.

“It’s a heavy thing to be pharaoh. That’s what you always preached, isn’t it? A heavy thing to bear so many lives at once. You must weigh the value. Assign it.” Marik lifted his palms, held them even, like the baskets of an empty scale. “And then come the choices. Who lives. Who dies.”

He raised the palm with the Millennium Rod, lowered the other. His smile returned, as uneven on his face as his hands were in the air.

“You may save the girl’s life if you wish, Pharaoh. Or you may save another. But you may only save one.” He lowered his hands. “First you have to win, but even if you win, you have to choose.”

It wasn’t a choice. “Yori.”

“Sure.” Marik’s smile grew, compressed his eyes. “3,000 years ago, she fell to the other side of the scale. Her life weighed too little, and you killed her. As you killed me.”

“You’re lying,” Yami spat. It wasn’t possible. There could never be a reality where . . .

It wasn’t possible.

“Sure. How’s your memory, Pharaoh?”

Yami set his jaw. “Whoever I may have been in the past, I’m different now.”

Marik cackled. “Sure. Win the duel, then tell me your choice.”

Yami didn’t know who he’d been before or what he’d lost. Maybe he was a coward and a tyrant; maybe his current state was punishment. Maybe he’d lived an awful life and regretted it; maybe his current state was penitence.

Or maybe, just maybe, he was a good man, and his current state was a sacrifice.

Whatever the truth was, he didn’t know. But he did know what mattered most to him in his current state. What would _always_ matter most.

So with more force than ever, he said, “It will always be Yori.”

++++++++++

There was an awkward silence over the whole group as they exited the medical bay. Joey’s mind was still reeling; the last time he’d seen something like what happened with Yori was when Marik mind-controlled the Ghoul guy and made him dance like a puppet. But this had been even worse.

“Are you still going to compete in the finals?” Duke asked abruptly.

Joey blinked. “Well, I’m a finalist, ain’t I?”

“If I were still in, I’d pull out. Unless you want to be the next person wheeled in for the doctors.”

“It does seem like a lot of risk over a game,” Serenity said quietly, her hands clutched together in front of her.

“This isn’t a game anymore.” Duke shook his head. “Trust me; I own a gaming franchise. This stopped being a game when we traded fun for danger to life and limb.”

Joey frowned. “This coming from the guy who once tried to ruin my life over a game with Yuugi.”

Duke flushed red. “That wasn’t—I wasn’t putting you in any real danger.”

“Just a dog suit. You obviously don’t know the circles I used to run in if you think that couldn’ta got me killed.” He shrugged off Duke’s next attempted protest and continued, “Look, all I’m sayin’ is people have been losin’ their heads over this game since it was invented—even the inventor himself. This here tournament might be bad, but it ain’t nothin’ new.”

“It’s true,” Anzu said softly. “Some of the things I saw in Duelist Kingdom . . . I mean, Mai was almost burned alive for her star chips, and that was before we even made it to the castle.”

“Tristan even died in a shadow game,” Ryou said, wincing. He adjusted the collar of his shirt like he was trying to better hide the ring.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Thank goodness Yuugi got me back.” Tristan managed to look both sick and amused at the same time. “I thought I was going to die again later, but then it was just a balloon.”

Everyone stared at him until he said, “What?”

Joey shook his head. “And Pegasus was stealin’ souls left and right—Yuugi’s grandpa, Kaiba, Mokuba. It wasn’t exactly a party.”

“You guys are literally making my argument for me.” Duke tossed his hands in the air. “After all that in the last tournament, why did you even come to this one? Why are we letting things like this happen over a game?”

“Well, it ain’t like I gave Marik an invite and written instructions about how to rack hammock—”

“Wreak havoc,” Anzu corrected.

“—over everybody’s _fun,”_ Joey said. “You know, it’s a funny thing about bad people, Duke. Usually they don’t need an invitation to be bad. Punks don’t need an invite to rob someone’s house or key someone’s car. Rich-boys don’t need an invite to bully people or humiliate ’em. Parents don’t need an invite to hit their kids or break their hopes. And something else about bad people? They show up everywhere. At home, at school, at work, and yeah, even in games. So you can run if you want. You can let ’em bully you away from the things you love. Or you can fight.”

He looped an arm around Serenity’s shoulders, hugging her close. “You know why I stuck it out in Duelist Kingdom? She’s right here.”

Serenity’s eyes welled up. Joey gave her another squeeze.

“Yuugi saved his grandpa,” Anzu said. “And he stopped Pegasus before he could hurt anyone else.”

“The bad people ain’t going nowhere,” Joey said. “But we ain’t neither. And they’ll lose in the end.”

“I guess I just don’t see it the same way,” Duke said, expression dark. He turned and left, disappearing down the hall. Serenity made a move like she would go after him but then stopped short.

After a moment, Anzu sighed. “I can’t really blame him. I mean, I’m all caught up in the madness, too, but it _is_ madness, isn’t it?”

“We’re all mad here,” Tristan said, sipping from an imaginary teacup, pinkie lifted.

Serenity gave a small smile. Joey slapped Tristan on the shoulder.

“Well, madness or not, some of us got duels in the mornin’, and I need my beauty sleep before I broadcast my mug again.”

“Joey . . .” Serenity hesitated. “Will Yori and Odion be alright?”

Joey forced a smile. “If Tristan can survive a balloon, I’m sure they can bounce back, too.”

“Hey!” Tristan sniffed.

But Joey knew something else about bad people, something he lived with every day of his life: Sometimes the punks shot people when they keyed cars. Sometimes the rich-boys put families out on the street when they bullied.

Sometimes parents killed their kids.

And it was true there was nowhere to run, nowhere to escape all the bad in the world. But it wasn’t true that good always won.

He knew that.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s check on Mai.”


	20. Hope

Seto stood unmoving for a while, watching the doctors transfer Yori from the examination table to the curtained-off bed area. As they hooked her up to monitors and an IV, the déjà vu in the room was almost tangible. Seto half expected the same sassy hospital nurse to enter the room and tell him he would have to wait outside.

“I noticed this,” the lead doctor said casually, giving Seto a side glance. He touched the back of Yori’s bandaged hand where there had already been an IV earlier in the day. “Was she released from a hospital and given her care provider’s approval to participate in this tournament?”

“No.” The corner of Seto’s mouth twitched. “She’s just a rebel.”

“All due respect, sir—”

“I know,” Seto said, losing his humor.

“Does she have any prior medical conditions we should be aware of?”

Cobra bite. Backstabbing. Lung surgery. Drowning.

Seto sighed. “Nothing relevant that I know of.”

They worked in silence for a moment before the doctor spoke again. “I don’t have the equipment I wish I had, but we’ll run some tests, and we’ll do the best we can.”

The statement got a nod from the CEO.

“Sorry, Mr. Kaiba. It seems these finals haven’t been the excitement you were looking for.”

Seto stared at Yori’s face, relaxed in unconsciousness.

“Not exactly,” he said quietly.

“I’m going to your room.” Mokuba spoke up suddenly. The boy had been silent the entire time, and Seto was well aware of the redness in his eyes and the stress in his face. “I don’t want to be here.”

The image of Marik grabbing Yori by the throat flashed through Seto’s mind.

“Hold on,” he said firmly. He spoke into his radio, requesting that Roland come provide an escort.

“I can walk by myself,” Mokuba said. “I’m not five. And if you think there’s something I should be afraid of out there, maybe you should just fix it.”

He opened the door and walked out into the hall.

“Mokuba—” Seto followed him out, grabbing his arm. “I said to wait for Roland.”

Mokuba yanked away and kept walking. “I said I don’t want to.”

Seto’s nostrils flared. He would just have to walk Mokuba there himself, then return to his duties. As soon as possible, he needed to find out how much of the ending of Yori’s duel had actually gone out over broadcast. The broadcasts were meant to end as soon as one opponent’s Duel Disk registered a loss, but with everything that had happened, he couldn’t risk not making sure the footage hadn’t dragged out. He also needed to publicly confirm the five finalists and announce the time of tomorrow’s finals.

No rest for the wicked. As usual.

“Did you get any dinner?” Seto asked, suddenly realizing he’d never paused to eat, which meant Mokuba hadn’t either unless he’d done so before Seto’s duel.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll have one of the staff bring something by.”

“I said I don’t want it! You don’t even listen!”

The boy took off running, and Seto sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. They’d already fought once today, and he wasn’t prepared to run the gauntlet again. His brother disappeared around the bend at the end of the hall.

“Parenting is not for the faint of heart,” a voice behind him said.

Seto glanced over his shoulder as Roland jogged to meet him. He snorted. “I’m not his parent.”

“Which makes things all the harder.”

Seto didn’t have a response for that. “I need to work out some tournament details. Will you make sure he’s okay? And ask a maid to bring him dinner.”

Roland nodded, then said, “The final duel never resumed broadcasting due to technical difficulties.”

Seto’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his bangs. “Actual technical difficulties? _My_ company?”

“It happens to the best,” Roland said stoically. “Instead, a montage of ‘best tournament moments’ was shown, cut from the previous duels. Mai Valentine, Seto Kaiba, Yuugi Mutou, Joey Wheeler, and Marik Ishtar were then announced as the second-round finalists, and the time was given for tomorrow’s broadcast, with location to be revealed.”

As Roland spoke, a warm feeling sank into Seto’s bones. It was something he didn’t experience often—relief.

“Normally,” he drawled, “I wouldn’t approve of someone overriding my orders.”

Roland never lost his neutral expression for a moment. “I prefer the term ‘interpreting.’ Dinner is already waiting for both of you in your room, so I suggest you don’t let it get cold.”

“You sure you don’t want that promotion to COO?” This time, Seto’s voice was serious.

“Thank you, but no,” Roland said, which was what he always said. He always declined the pay raises, too. The one time Seto had given him one without notifying the man, Roland had reported it as a mistake to the financial department and had it changed back.

Seto already wasn’t skilled at gratitude, and Roland made it even harder. He was a good man, one Seto couldn’t live without, and he’d never found a way to communicate as much.

A moment of silence passed. Seto shook his head.

“Roland, I may have really messed this one up.”

“Mokuba will come around. It’s late, and it’s been a long day.”

“A long day where I almost got him killed. Marik is dangerous.”

But if it had been political suicide previously to expel the Egyptian from his tournament, it would be even more so now. After how things went wrong with the broadcast, it would be child’s play for the press to come up with a story about how Seto was rigging his tournament finals in his own favor. Had Marik actually stabbed Yori, no one could have argued his expulsion, but that would have been a separate can of worms in itself.

“If I recall,” Roland said, “so was Pegasus.”

“Pegasus was an ambush.” Seto narrowed his eyes. “Marik came through wide-open invitation.”

Roland was silent for a few seconds. Then he removed the dark glasses he always wore, folded them, and slid them into the pocket of his suit jacket.

“I believe in what you’re doing here at KaibaCorp, Seto.” He looked Seto right in the eye, and the boy swallowed. “You have proclaimed that dreams are worthwhile, that the only limit to achievement is hard work, and that fun is not merely reserved for those who can afford its price tag. I remember a time when KaibaCorp existed to attack and damage the world; you have made it something that builds and betters it instead. I don’t believe the potholes along the road compromise the worth of the journey or destination.”

And Seto didn’t know what to say to that, but that warm feeling of relief sank even deeper in his bones.

Roland smiled. “Sleep well, Mr. Kaiba. I believe there is a light at the end of this tournament.”

++++++++++

As Yami retraced his steps to the medical bay, he reached out gently in his mind. //Yuugi?//

The boy hadn’t made an appearance since the duel, and Yami had been a bit preoccupied to do anything about it until now. Of course, with everything that had happened, he didn’t blame Yuugi for staying in the puzzle. Part of him wished he would have done so himself.

Yuugi didn’t appear, and he didn’t respond.

The med bay door slid open, distracting Yami for the moment. The doctor tending to Yori frowned at his entrance. Yami thought at first that he wouldn’t be welcome, but the doctor only wanted to check the scratches on his face. They weren’t deep enough to warrant much concern, and they were too long to easily conceal with a bandage, so in the end, the doctor simply sterilized them and let them be.

“Have you two had any previous altercations?” he asked.

“No.” Yami’s heart twisted. “We’re actually . . . No.”

In the back of his mind, Marik’s smirk lurked in the shadows. _“3,000 years ago, her life weighed too little, and you killed her.”_

Yami swallowed.

“Does she have any history of mental health concerns? Earlier, she mentioned talking to spirits.”

“Just an inside joke.” Yami knew better than to answer truthfully, although the irony that the doctor himself was talking to a spirit was not lost on him.

The man went on to explain that she was heavily sedated and would remain so while they continued testing for the source of the problem. Yami nodded along and said nothing; he knew the source of the problem, but there was nothing the doctor could do.

“May I sit with her?” he asked.

“Do as you like.”

Yami pulled a chair next to the bed and sat heavily. He couldn’t hold her hand for fear of dislodging the IV in it, so he rested his hand on her arm. She was no longer wearing his jacket—the doctors had removed it earlier—and her arms looked pale below her Battle City T-shirt. Yami ran his thumb over a faint scar halfway up her forearm, wondering if it had come from a knife.

Even after seeing her scars the first time, the day Joey had gone missing, he’d never asked about them, not even about the obvious snake bite. He should have; it would have given her a chance to explain the way she wanted to instead of the way the shadows forced it.

//Yuugi?// he called out again. When he again received no answer, he frowned. He closed his eyes and reached into the puzzle.

The door to Yuugi’s soul room was closed. He could sense the boy beyond it, but he didn’t want to intrude, so he left without saying more.

He’d barely had a moment to ground himself in the real world before Shadi appeared.

“Again?”

“I’m afraid so,” Shadi said.

The doctor, who’d been about to step through the curtained divider, glanced up. When Yami waved him off, he disappeared through the opening, closing it behind himself.

“I know you care for her, my pharaoh, but you must not allow your concern to—”

“That’s enough.” Yami kept his voice low, but it was firm. He had no interest in whatever “destiny” Shadi was about to preach, not if it was one that put Yori second to anything.

“If you do not gain the remaining two god cards and the other Millennium Items, then every sacrifice to this point will have been for nothing.”

Yami turned away. “I no longer care about obtaining my memories.”

“I doubt that, but I’m afraid, either way, it is not all about you. I warned your partner the war has already begun in Domino.”

Yami frowned; Yuugi hadn’t mentioned a personal visit from Shadi. It wasn’t like the boy to keep secrets. But then again, it also wasn’t like the boy to lock himself away in his soul room without a word.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

Shadi was silent a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “The battle fought 3,000 years ago in Egypt was no war between countries; it was a war between gods. Egypt was neither invading force nor defending nation; it was the board where the gods set their pieces, their mortal champions. Today, that board is Japan, decided by the items gathering to your position.”

Yami swallowed. “I’m Ra’s champion?”

“Every pharaoh is chosen of Ra.”

Funny, he didn’t remember interviewing for the job. Yami knew it was a bitter thought, but he couldn’t help it, not when Yori’s lighthearted voice teased at the back of his mind, _“If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”_

“It wouldn’t be this,” he muttered. He’d rather be an unqualified train conductor.

“During the duel, I warned you there are mere days remaining before—”

“God cards. Items. Valley of the Kings. Stop the mystery war. Got it.” Yami gave an empty half-smile. “Because I’m Ra’s ‘mortal champion’—the dead, nameless pharaoh, apparently irreplaceable even after 3,000 years of candidates.”

Had Yori been awake, Yami would have told her he was experiencing possibly his first-ever “why me?” moment. She would have appreciated it. Maybe she would have laughed and kicked his foot under the table. Maybe she would have reminded him of their first conversation in the game shop: _“Recently retired, huh? How’s that working out for you?”_

“Self-pity is unbecoming on you, my pharaoh.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Shadi stepped closer to Yori, lifted a hand to gently touch her shoulder, then lowered it. His cold eyes regarded Yami.

“She did not cross three millennia and incur the god of creation’s wrath out of blind affection. Would you waste her sacrifices by abandoning yourself to such?”

Yami narrowed his eyes. “Don’t test me, spirit.”

Shadi’s expression remained empty. “What irony. She may make you feel alive, Pharaoh, but the truth remains. There is no life for you here; it was spent long ago. Should you become selfish now, all is lost.”

The puzzle warmed with heat. Yami looked away, forced the power back down.

By the time he looked back, Shadi was gone. And good riddance.

++++++++++

Seeing Mai’s face brighten as they all piled into the small room again eased something of the edge in Joey’s soul.

“Congratulations, mon cher!” she said, smiling warmly at Joey. “I look forward to a battle with you in the finals.”

He grinned back.

Nothing had changed for Odion, unfortunately. And since Mai showed them the laptop she’d used to watch Joey’s duel and asked what had happened during Yori’s, they had to be the bearers of more bad news.

“It seems the tournament is turning to vinegar.” Mai gave a quiet sigh.

“Give it a night.” Joey tried for a smile. “New days make all the difference.”

“Yeah, I bet Odion and Yori will both be on their feet come tomorrow,” Tristan said. Once again, he always had Joey’s back.

“You need to sleep.” Anzu squeezed Mai’s shoulder. “I can sit with him tonight.”

Mai’s eyebrows rose. “You also need sleep.”

“I’m not dueling. At the very least, sleep for a few hours, and then we can trade back.”

Ryou frowned. “Are we protecting him from something?”

Mai shook her head at the same time Anzu smiled faintly.

“Just keeping him company,” Anzu said. “I’m sure Yuugi will do the same for Yori.”

Joey frowned. “I don’t like that idea if she attacks him again.”

“I think the doctors will keep her knocked out for quite a while,” Tristan said. “But just in case, I’ll go check on him.”

“Sounds like it’s sorted.” Ryou yawned. “The rest of us should kip down for the night.”

They all nodded and mumbled agreement. Anzu stayed in the room with Odion, taking over Mai’s chair, and the rest of them filed into the hallway. Mai headed for her room, and Tristan ducked into the main medical bay.

When Tristan had spoken with the staff earlier, they’d offered to let spectators share staff accommodations since they had extra beds and it was more practical than doubling up in single-bed finalist rooms. Joey would have happily shared his room with Serenity and slept on the floor, but she’d insisted she couldn’t do that to him when he needed his rest for the tournament. So staff room it was.

“Hey,” he said, ears burning, “before we head to the staff place, I gotta make a pit stop.”

He ducked into the nearby men’s restroom, fingers shaking because he’d realized if he walked Serenity to the staff room, there would probably be female staff there, which meant . . .

He tugged the handkerchief from his pocket again, ran his thumb across the embroidered KvS. He examined himself in the mirror, trying to fix the stupid cowlick that made his bangs stick out. As always, it refused to be fixed. And he still had an ugly scab on his cheek from the fight with the Ghouls. He was an embarrassment.

 _“I really liked her,”_ Tristan said in his mind. _“So I should have said something.”_

If Joey backed out now, maybe he’d never have another chance. And maybe he was an embarrassment, but she hadn’t said so yet. With the shirt, she’d been helping him—employee obligations and whatnot. But no one had made her give him her Token of Affection. No one had made her learn his name.

He looked at the handkerchief.

Use. Wash. Return. That was what Tristan said.

Feeling like a goof, he dabbed the soft cloth over his face, accomplishing nothing except tickling his nose.

Okay, use. Then wash.

He held the white square under the faucet until the water turned on automatically and doused it.

Should he use soap? He should probably use soap. It wasn’t a wash without soap.

He added hand soap to the cloth and scrubbed it against itself, accidentally splashing bubbly water across the counter. He tried to scoop the water back into the sink and only made more of a mess, so he gave up. The faucet turned off when he pulled away, and then he twisted the handkerchief over the empty sink, wringing a small flood of water down the drain.

Dry? How about dry. Tristan should have said dry.

He grabbed a bundle of paper towels and used them to wring the handkerchief again. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get it drier than damp, and it was now patterned with wrinkles that hadn’t been there before.

“Joey, you alright, mate?” Ryou stuck his head in the door. “After everything that’s happened, I think Serenity’s a little paranoid you’ll fall into a coma at any moment.”

Joey started, dropping the handkerchief and towels on the floor.

“Be right out!” he said.

He scooped them back up as Ryou disappeared. He slowly peeled the white cloth from the paper towels. After another shake, he tried to fold it neatly and tuck it back into his pocket.

Now return it.

The hardest part.

He squared his shoulders, looked at himself in the mirror, and raised both fists.

 _“Kitto katsu!”_ he whispered.

His face turned red as a beet; he was a complete idiot.

He darted out of the bathroom and hooked an arm around Serenity’s shoulders like nothing had happened.

“To the staff room!” he announced, already dragging her in that direction as she giggled.

Ryou smiled. “See you guys in the morning.”

As he started to turn away, Joey came to a dead stop and grabbed his arm.

“Wingman!” he blurted. It was meant to be a request, but it exploded in a way that was just weird for everybody.

Ryou blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“Just . . .” Joey could feel the heat in his face again. “Just come with. Please.”

Although Ryou chuckled, he also nodded, and he didn’t ask anything else. Once again, Joey was beyond grateful for his friends.

Even if what he was about to try fell to pieces, at least he’d still have his friends.

++++++++++

Yami looked up when the curtain parted, raising his eyebrows when it was Tristan who entered. The brunette pulled a second chair next to the spirit’s.

“How you holding up, man?” He clapped a hand on Yami’s shoulder.

Despite himself, Yami almost smiled.

“I’m fine,” he said, the lie heavy in his heart but easy on his tongue. “Thank you for asking.”

Tristan tapped his own cheek. “Guess it’s not so bad. Looked a lot worse when it happened.”

“Felt a lot worse,” Yami said quietly, turning to look at Yori once more. She lay as still as ever, almost like she wasn’t breathing. The thought had scared him so much while sitting beside her that he’d already touched her neck twice to ensure she still had a pulse. And all the while, the echo of Marik’s voice taunted him: _“You killed her.”_

“You know”—Tristan snorted—“I didn’t like her at first.”

Yami nodded. He held himself back from reminding Tristan that he hadn’t liked Anzu, Yuugi, Ryou, or perhaps anyone upon first impression. In all honesty, Yami wasn’t certain Tristan would like him either—after all, he thought he was conversing with Yuugi.

“Anyway, when we had that big party after Serenity’s surgery, I think that was the first time I really talked to her. She said she could count on one hand the number of times she’d gone to a doctor. I said, ‘You gonna tell me it’s an apple a day?’ and she said, ‘It really works. As long as you throw it hard enough.’”

Yami managed a real smile this time, but it ached.

“Right?” Tristan grinned. “And we had some stuff in common, stuff I wouldn’t have expected. She knows how to drive a motorcycle, and she’s read Tomoe Gozen’s biography. Nobody likes biographies, man. Joey _still_ gives me grief whenever he sees me with one.”

Something pressed on Yami’s chest, a weight he couldn’t see. “She’s remarkable.”

“Yeah, she’s not so bad. I was wrong.” Tristan’s expression darkened. “And Marik’s gonna pay.”

Yami couldn’t manage words, so he nodded.

“Good.” Tristan stood, slid his hands into his pockets. “I know Yuugi doesn’t go for revenge and stuff, but something tells me a guy like Marik is a downhill boulder. He won’t stop until someone else stops him.”

Yami’s eyes widened. He tried to speak and found himself at another loss for words.

“Don’t forget to sleep,” Tristan said, glancing down at him again. “And let us know if you need anything. We’ve all got your back.”

Yami nodded mutely. As Tristan left the room, he sat in something of an awed silence, counting names to himself—Yori and Yuugi, obviously; Ryou; Joey; Anzu; and now Tristan.

It was everyone. It was the entire group. He was no longer standing in Yuugi’s shadow; from now on, whatever he did, his friends would see him do it as himself. And they _were_ his friends. The folder he’d labeled Yuugi’s and tucked away had opened to share its contents. Not by mistake. Not this time.

The thought was so overwhelming he had to stand up and pace, even though he only had a cramped space in which to do so. When he finally had himself under control again, he retook his seat and gently rested his fingers across Yori’s, careful not to disturb her IV.

More than anything, he wanted to talk to her.

But there was nothing he could do except wait.


	21. The Game

By the time they got to the staff room, Joey’s insides had turned themselves into a copy of Yuugi’s puzzle, one that would take twice as long to solve.

“You look kind of green,” Serenity said, which was really very helpful. Green was exactly how he wanted to look before facing a beautiful woman.

He smashed his bangs against his forehead; they sprang back up.

“Let’s just knock,” he said.

Ryou stepped forward to do so, and a moment later, the door slid open. From inside, at least seven heads peered curiously at the newcomers, eight including the guy who’d opened the door.

“Welcome to our—” He stopped his bow short. “Hey, you’re finalists.”

“We were only expecting spectators,” called out a guy at the pool table, grunting as he struck a ball into the corner pocket. “What brings you here, lads? Need something?”

Serenity leaned forward from between Joey and Ryou, waving a hand. “They brought me.”

A murmur of understanding passed through the room, and the guy at the door stepped away.

“Everyone inside, might as well. We’ll get you figured out.”

They stepped into the room, door closing behind their small group. It was surprisingly lavish inside. Joey had fully expected Kaiba to be one of those businessmen who made a big show for the public and really skimped on his employees, but the pool table, mini kitchen, card tables, and leather lounge chairs all told a different story.

And one of said lounge chairs was occupied by the angel-eyed owner of the KvS handkerchief. She sat facing the room, but her eyes were on her laptop.

He gulped.

A different girl in a maid’s uniform started giving Serenity a verbal tour: snacks and water in the fridge, clothes in the corner closet, door at the back of the room that led to the bunks, which were divided into male and female sections.

“Guess it’s bedtime, then,” Serenity said, a slight frown on her face.

“Why rush?” Joey’s voice squeaked, and he had to clear his throat. “Can we hang out here for a few minutes?”

The guy who’d opened the door originally had resumed the game of pool, but he smiled at the request.

“Sure,” he said. “Want to play?”

Joey hesitated, and Ryou stepped forward at the perfect moment.

“I’ll have a go.” He smiled at Serenity. “How about you?”

“I’m so good at pool.” She grinned, miming a downward shot. “I can jump the cue ball and everything.”

“Teach me some of those tricks, lass,” said the second employee. “Before this kid shows me up again.”

Joey tried to give Ryou a thumbs-up as he moved off, but the albino wasn’t even paying attention, like playing pool had been his only objective and he hadn’t been helping Joey at all. Natural wingman. Much better than Tristan, who would have announced to the entire room exactly what Joey had come for.

After clearing his throat again, Joey moved to the lounge chairs. The closer he got, the more his legs wanted to turn the other way, but he forced himself to walk right up to her, stopping a few feet away.

“Hey.” He tried for a laugh; it came out strangled. “Remember me?”

She ignored him, eyes fixed completely on her screen while she typed.

His heart sank.

Then another girl leaned sideways in her chair and smiled at him from around her novel. “You’ll have to catch her attention, sir. She’s deaf.”

Joey blinked.

Then he blinked again.

And the lightbulb finally clicked on.

“Ohhh. YES!” He laughed, happy this time. She’d never been ignoring him, never thought what he said was stupid (well, hopefully). She just couldn’t hear it.

“I can sign for you if you need,” the book-girl offered. “But she actually reads lips really well.”

Sign language. Joey vaguely remembered learning to sign the English alphabet way back in kindergarten, his last year in America. He’d also learned the months of the year in Spanish, and he remembered exactly zero of both languages. But she’d spoken to him in the hallway just fine, understood when he’d given her his shirt size. The other girl said she could read lips, which was one of those skills Joey had assumed was made up for spies in the movies. Maybe she was a real-life spy. Maybe she was a real-life superhero.

Either way, he was just glad she probably didn’t hate him.

“I got this, thanks,” he said, and the other girl nodded before returning to her book.

He took another step forward, with confidence this time, and waved his hand above the maid’s computer.

She looked up immediately. Then it was her turn to blink.

“Hey,” he said again, grinning. He pointed at himself, tried to speak clearly. “Remember me?”

“Joey!” She smiled; it was breathtaking.

In one quick movement, she closed her laptop and jumped up, hugging it to her chest. Joey barely managed to step back before cracking heads with her. He hadn’t realized she was so tall—almost his own height. Of course, most of that came from her shiny black heels. Joey hadn’t really paid attention, but he didn’t think any of the other employees were wearing heels; she really wasn’t a normal maid.

“Congratulations on winning your duel,” she said. “It was the best match of the semi-finals.”

The _best?_ His mouth suddenly lost all its moisture.

“I ain’t even got a god card,” he croaked, blushing like an idiot.

“So?”

He didn’t really have a response for that, and before he could come up with one, his stupid mouth blurted, “I didn’t know you were deaf.”

If Joey ever owned a gun, he’d shoot himself in the foot. It was inevitable.

He started to apologize, but she spoke first.

“Hard of hearing.” She lifted a shoulder like it was no big deal. “As long as you face me and speak normally, neither of us will notice. For the most part.”

Anzu would have called her refined. Or poised. Joey had never asked what poised meant, but Anzu used it to describe her favorite actress, and it definitely fit here.

He stuck his hand in his pocket for her handkerchief. It was still damp, and his pocket was, too, but he’d come too far to turn back, so he held it out. And waited. As she took it, her fingers brushed his. Her skin was soft and smooth, and her nail polish shimmered like she’d trapped stars in the gloss.

Then her eyes widened. “Did you wash it?”

He’d definitely done it all wrong. Stupid Tristan with his stupid “expert” advice.

Joey sputtered for words—

Until her smile bloomed again. “That’s so thoughtful. You didn’t have to.”

“Use, wash, return.” He grinned. “I know how these things work.”

“It couldn’t have been convenient in our current setting. Thank you.” She tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of her slacks.

It wasn’t going terrible. And it was now or never.

He waited until her eyes returned to his, then said, “Can I get your name?”

“Krisalyn.” No hesitation. “You can call me Kris, if you’d like.”

It was beautiful. Just like her.

“I’m Joey.” He coughed. “I mean, you already knew that. How’d you know?”

She just smiled mysteriously.

Poised.

Someone poked him from behind, and he jumped like a cat. Serenity grinned up at him.

“I thought you’d want a turn at pool,” she said. She waved at Krisalyn, who gave a polite bow. Joey took the opening to introduce the two girls, and before he’d finished, Ryou had made his way over and needed an introduction, too.

Most of the people in the lounge started looking their way, and the more attention focused on Kris, the more she hugged her laptop and shrank back. Joey only realized it an instant before she looked ready to bolt, and since he’d been the one to draw all the attention, he fixed it the first way that popped into his head.

“Alright, people!” He held his deck up and pointed at one of the card tables. “Who wants a crack at the one and only Joey Wheeler?!”

Several moments of just crickets passed, but then the guy who’d opened the door stepped forward, wiping his palms on his uniform before hesitantly raising his hand.

“I’ve been working on my deck,” the guy said, “and I almost tried to enter the tournament, but then . . . anyway, I have this combo, and you—”

“Say no more!” Joey unsnapped his Duel Disk and handed it to Serenity for safekeeping. “Anybody got a duelin’ mat?”

Somebody pulled one out of a closet and set it up at a table with two chairs. While his opponent took position, Joey searched the faces for Krisalyn, finally spotting her near the door to the sleeping area. He dashed over to her, touched her shoulder to draw her gaze.

“Don’t go.” He scrambled for an excuse to get her to stay. Three people wasn’t a duel, and it would be selfish to ask her to just watch when she couldn’t play, especially if she didn’t like being in a crowd of people.

“I’m only storing my laptop.” Her mint eyes softened. “I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see you duel live.”

At that, his heart played a piano scale up his spine, sending shivers ringing all the way to his shoes.

“Why me?” he asked.

But she just did the mysterious-smile thing again and ducked through the doorway.

Joey floated back to the card table and planted himself in the empty seat. He slapped his deck down on the bottom-right square of the mat and announced he’d take the opening turn.

Ryou gave a cheeky grin, commenting on the nostalgia of dueling without holograms.

“It’s like trying to live without indoor plumbing after you’ve had it,” he said. “The outhouse will never be appealing again.”

Laughter rippled through the staff members around him. Someone complimented him on withstanding the attack from Kaiba’s god card, and before Joey knew it, another dueling mat was being spread out on the table next to him.

“Watch out for his ghost cards,” Joey warned the unsuspecting challenger. “Even without the holograms, they’re freaky as get out.”

The girl’s eyes widened, but she looked impressed instead of worried. She’d learn soon enough. Joey shivered at the thought.

He’d just completed his first turn when he saw Krisalyn sneak back into the room. She edged her way along the wall until she found a place to stand with a clear view of his table and both players. Joey forced his attention back to the match, but he couldn’t help his giddy smile.

Not long after the two matches were underway, someone challenged Serenity as well.

“Oh, no,” she said shyly, her cheeks pink. “I don’t duel.”

“Don’t take after the family business?” someone asked.

“I just—I’ve never learned.” She shook her head. “Just a little. From watching.”

“You wanna learn, sis?” Joey asked seriously.

Serenity bit her lip. Slowly, she smiled. Then she nodded.

“The outhouses look a little less intimidating than the holograms,” she said, earning a laugh from the room.

“All I got’s my deck,” Joey said. “You wanna take a turn after me, and I’ll guide you through it?”

“Oh, please, lad,” the pool player called out, smiling. “This is KaibaCorp. Someone get some extra cards in here and let the lady choose a starter deck.”

Not five minutes later, Serenity was on the floor surrounded by a gaggle of employees and what looked like a hundred cards. Everyone pointed her to personal favorites of theirs, and every once in a while, Joey looked over his shoulder from his own game to give helpful tips that usually left his sister’s eyes spinning. But she was laughing, and Joey was, too.

“This is it,” Joey said as he turned back once.

“What is?” Ryou paused in his draw phase.

Joey marked a deduction on the paper where he was tracking his lifepoints. He grinned across the space between tables. “This is the game.”

And even though Joey couldn’t express exactly what he was feeling, Ryou got it anyway. He smiled.

“This is the game,” he agreed.

++++++++++

The ship was quiet. Anzu had never enjoyed the quiet; she surrounded herself with people if she could and music if she couldn’t. She even fell asleep to music because the quiet made her jittery—it let her mind run away without her.

And right now, it wouldn’t stop running to Marik.

She sat with her knees pulled up in the chair, arms folded across them and head resting so she could watch Odion. He breathed heavily, the only real sound in the room, and she wished he would wake up so they could talk. She could tell him what had happened when she’d visited Marik, what he’d done to Yori, how he’d become a completely different person. Odion was the only one who would understand why she wanted to help.

He was the only one who wouldn’t freak out if she said she missed the real Marik.

Anzu sighed and rubbed her tired eyes.

When she opened them again, she was in her auditorium. She shot to her feet, spun in a full circle, looking.

But Marik wasn’t there.

“Marik?” she called. She tried not to think about what would happen if it wasn’t him, if she wound up trapped in her mind with the _thing_ that had taken over his body. The maroon seats stretched back forever, dimly lit and empty. The orchestra pit was dark.

The stage was lit by a single spotlight.

She rushed up the stairs, brushed past the parted velvet curtains. At the edge of the spotlight, she stretched out her hand, watched the floating particles touch her palm. Nothing changed.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

She looked up at the spotlight, squinted against the brightness. And for a moment, she saw a distant circle of sun, saw the yellow stone of Marik’s memory.

“So many years obsessing over that light,” said a voice behind her. “If I’d let it go, maybe . . .”

Anzu whirled around to find Marik standing in the shadow of the house curtain. He flickered at the edges like a bad hologram, and his skin was translucent, but he was there. Without thinking, Anzu reached for him.

He backed away, eyes wide. “You would have _hugged_ me?”

“I’ve been worried,” she said. “Are you okay? What’s been—”

“Don’t,” he snarled. “You have no idea what I am.”

She raised her hands, though she didn’t retreat. “What happened?”

He muttered something to himself. After another glance at the spotlight still burning the stage, he turned away.

But Anzu recognized the look in his eyes.

Her older brother, Taro, tried so hard to never cry. But before he did, he always had the same look.

“Talk to me, Marik,” Anzu said gently.

He shook his head. Kept his back to her.

She took a hesitant step closer, then another, until she could reach out to touch his back. He flinched away. So she grasped his hand instead, held on when he tried to pull free.

“You don’t have to talk,” she coaxed. “Show me.”

“That’s worse.” His voice was barely a whisper.

Even though she hated the quiet, she forced herself to stay silent and wait.

And finally, he gripped her hand. His fingers trembled.

“It was me.”

She frowned. “What was?”

“. . . My father.”

She opened her mouth, then stopped cold. She saw again his father’s slumped body, the streaked blood on the wall.

“Odion made a deal.” He took a shuddering breath. “Made me forget. But the monster was always me.”

Before she could stop herself, Anzu took a step back.

Marik released her hand. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“When Odion wakes up”—his voice cracked—“tell him to take Ishizu and go. As far away as he can. Tell him it’s an order.”

Anzu swallowed. “Marik—”

But he was gone.

++++++++++

When Yuugi had willingly stood in the path of a god’s attack, he’d expected the pain, which he’d definitely felt. He’d even expected he might fall unconscious, which he definitely had.

But he hadn’t expected to wake up in a place he didn’t recognize.

For a moment, he might have thought it was Yami’s soul room; it had the same yellowed stone and twisting staircases. But the staircases in Yami’s room twisted in on themselves to create a maze; these staircases led resolutely forward and up to form a pyramid, each step clear. And where Yami’s soul room was full of shadows, this room was full of _light._ It seeped between each stone, filled the air with golden haze, and illuminated every corner. There wasn’t a shadow to be found.

And the glow was brightest at the very center, where an indiscernible figure sat on a throne of light.

Yuugi blinked.

“Hello?” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

The light faded enough for him to make out a man in the glow, a man decked out in gold and white who smiled as he leaned forward. “Hello, Yuugi Mutou.”

“Ra?” It was really the only explanation.

Ra dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Cool.” Yuugi couldn’t think of anything better to say, but the flood of light was comforting, as was Ra’s smile. And how often did anyone get to meet a god?

Ra chuckled. He settled into his throne once more, studying Yuugi.

After the silence had stretched for a while, Yuugi said, “Why am I here?”

And Ra’s response drained all his comfort in an instant: “Because you’re dead.”


	22. Mind Games

“I’m dead?” Yuugi laughed, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do. “I can’t be . . . dead. I can’t . . .”

“What’s that silly expression? ‘As a small bit of metal.’” Ra gave the slightest shrug. “You took on an attack meant for someone else, and now you’ve put me in a conundrum.”

“A _holographic_ attack. In a game. I know it was a shadow game, but . . .”

Dead? What about Grandpa? What about his friends?

“Oh, no . . . Did—” Yuugi’s voice cracked. “Did my friends find my body? Are they okay?”

“Curious priorities.”

The god seemed disinterested, but Yuugi’s breath came faster with every subsequent horrifying thought. Anzu would cry if he were dead; he didn’t want her to cry. And Joey would—

What about Yami? Was he trapped in the puzzle without a host?

Or was the truth something even worse?

“You know, compassion”—Ra smiled, and somehow it was both a friendly and empty expression—“is mostly seen as a human emotion. As is selflessness. They’re both godly, of course. Nothing is human without also being godly. But immortality has a way of eroding those two in particular. You could say we’ve seen too many forests to care for the trees.”

“No offense, but I didn’t get any of that.” Yuugi doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating his way into a panic attack. His body sure felt alive: breath and lungs and heartbeat and all two-hundred-or-whatever bones. He didn’t feel like a spirit, not even like he did in the puzzle; he certainly didn’t feel dead.

Should he cry?

Was it weird to mourn his own death?

Was it weirder not to?

“You’re in shock.” Ra’s smile remained in place. “Also godly, believe it or not.”

“You’re certainly not what I expected,” Yuugi muttered. He had a human head, for starters. Yuugi couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen images of Ra from his grandpa’s research, illustration after illustration of a human body with a falcon head. The man before him had gold hair, but it was human. He had gold eyes, but they were human. It was hard to make out details on his gold headdress, but it may have had the beak of a falcon.

“You expected something?” Ra turned his palms out, hands dangling from the arms of his throne of light. “I created your species; the sun itself moves at my command. In sixteen breaths of life, what exactly did you comprehend of me, child?”

Yuugi swallowed.

“As I thought.”

When he looked away, Yuugi’s eyes caught on the upward staircase, spiraling to heaven. Was he meant to climb it? Was heaven actually a—?

“This isn’t normal.” His mind continued to race, but he managed to grasp a few details, to see the gaps where they didn’t add up. “It can’t be. Thousands of people die every day; you can’t possibly care to greet them all. If you did, another one would have appeared by now.”

“I am a god; how dare you tell me what I’m capable of.” Ra’s smile returned. “You’re correct. Does it make you feel special, Yuugi Mutou?”

It made him feel sick. “Not when you’re the one who killed me.”

“You’re not wrong.” The god hardly looked apologetic.

“You meant to kill my sister.”

“You’re an only child, child. And you were barely born, at that. I almost had to wait another thousand years to see the puzzle solved.”

Yuugi’s mind spun, trying to remember everything he’d learned from his grandpa about the past. “You’re the reason I don’t remember Yori, the reason Shadi took my memory. Why?”

“I feel no need to justify myself.”

“Well, I’d like a reason for my death.”

As soon as school started on Monday, Yuugi was supposed to turn in a report on Julius Caesar. He hadn’t even finished his summer reading, and he wasn’t sure why it of all things worried him at the moment, but an almost hysterical smile crossed his face as he wondered what his teacher would think when news spread that Yuugi had died on the last weekend of summer break in a Duel Monsters tournament during a match that wasn’t even his.

He’d wanted to protect Yori.

Dying for her had probably made her feel worse than ever.

“And if you cared enough to meet me at the gates,” Yuugi continued, still smiling his not-turning-in-a-book-report smile, “I think you should care enough to tell me why Ra the God Card was going to kill my sister when Obelisk didn’t kill Ryou and Osiris didn’t kill Yami.”

“Perhaps she deserved it.” Ra’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps Ra the God Card is not a monster to be trifled with.”

Yuugi considered that. “You created our species; the sun itself moves at your command. Yet in sixteen breaths of life, Yori somehow got under your skin?”

Ra shook a finger at him. “Clever. There’s the mind that solved the Millennium Puzzle.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“You are; it took her seventeen. Now she’s on her unapproved second batch, of which I already robbed her once, and though I hate to repeat myself, today’s opportunity was irresistible. It’s a shame you interfered.”

“Sorry to wreck your day, but I’d imagine we can call it even.”

As Ra laughed, the light in the room pulsed brighter with the sound.

“So you didn’t mean to kill me.” Yuugi swallowed. “So just undo it.”

“Gladly.” Ra leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “Say the word, and I’ll trade her life for yours, as it was meant to be.”

Yuugi didn’t have to give his answer a single thought. “Never!”

“Well, then, child”—Ra’s smile was once again that eerie mix of empty friendliness—“let’s see how long it takes to change your mind.”

Light blinded Yuugi’s vision like it had during Ra’s attack. He covered his eyes against the brilliance, and when he opened them again, blinking the spots from his vision, his surroundings were blessedly familiar.

He was back on the blimp. He was in the med bay. Yami was there. Yori was there.

Yuugi nearly collapsed in relief. “Yami, what happened? Last I knew—”

But Yami didn’t turn.

Just as quickly as he’d absorbed his surroundings, Yuugi realized the true situation.

He was back on the blimp, but he was still dead.

And not even Yami could see him.

++++++++++

The ship was still quiet, but Anzu’s heart thundered in the silence. She ran forward even though she felt sick. Her heavy steps echoed in the metal hallways, and the dimmed overhead lights cast looming shadows in every corner.

She told herself to turn around. Lock herself in a room. Stay safe.

Instead, she kept running.

The last time she’d run on the blimp, she’d been escaping Marik’s room. This time, her path took her straight to it.

Anzu told herself not to knock.

And as always—

—she disobeyed.

She pounded on the door until her hand hurt, until she was certain she must’ve woken everyone on the blimp.

And then the door slid aside.

Marik stood in the entryway. But it wasn’t Marik. He surveyed her with a lazy, empty smile, and his bloodshot eyes had an eerie almost-pink glow in the low light.

“Well, well—” he started.

Anzu whipped her hand from her purse, holding a black tube of lipstick aimed at Not-Marik’s face.

“This is pepper spray,” she snapped, “and if you don’t let me say what I came to say, I’ll spray it in your eyes, and you can enjoy the rest of the tournament blind.”

He laughed, but he didn’t speak. Maybe it was only out of morbid curiosity, but she would take the opening while she had it.

“Marik, I know you’re still in there.” She stared directly into his eyes, willed herself to see past the monster. “I don’t know what this is, but I know you’re still inside.”

“He’s not,” Marik drawled. “I’ve been chipping away at his mind for years. Only the scraps remain.”

“Liar.” Anzu nodded toward his arm, where his brown skin was smeared with dried blood. “I know you did that, Marik. You saved me; now save yourself.”

Laughter rumbled through Marik’s chest again, but Anzu pressed on.

“I know it’s easier to hide, but you don’t get to. No matter how much it hurts, you don’t get a free pass out. I don’t care what you did. You’re going to get your body back, and you’re going to face me here in the real world, and we’ll talk. Okay? Because that’s what friends do.”

Marik rolled his eyes. He reached for the rod, lifted it from his belt. The ever-present third eye on his forehead glowed brighter.

Anzu’s hand trembled around the lipstick tube, but she only raised her voice and kept going. “Maybe you killed your dad because you’re a monster, and maybe I’ll ship you off to prison myself. Fine. But maybe it wasn’t your fault.”

She thought of that little boy aching for sunlight, and her voice broke. Her eyes burned with tears.

“I don’t think it was your fault, Marik.” Wherever he was, she willed him to hear. “I don’t think that’s who you are.”

“I grow bored with your—” Marik’s words cut off in a hiss as he grimaced. For just a moment, his right eye wasn’t bloodshot, and it was fixed directly on her.

Anzu’s heart lifted.

“You’re not alone, Marik,” she said, nearly breathless with hope. “I won’t stop fighting, so neither can you.”

Then the monster clutched the right side of his face, ducking away with a snarl. He swiped at her with the rod, but she was already running again. Before he could recover, she darted around the corner and down the next hallway.

She pounded on another door; it opened to reveal another Ishtar.

“I need your help,” Anzu said, ducking into Ishizu’s room. She swiped at her cheeks, cleared the tears before the tombkeeper could see.

The door slid closed, and Ishizu raised an eyebrow. “Ms. Mazaki, only hours ago, I would have known the reason for your visit before you even arrived, but I’m afraid now you’ll have to tell me in plain words.”

“I’m going to save your brother,” Anzu said. “And I need your help.”

++++++++++

Marik was dreaming. Sometimes he walked through metal passageways and people spoke to him in warbling, underwater voices. He wasn’t sure if he ever answered. Sometimes he thought he felt his mouth move, but he couldn’t make out the words. He thought he might have been dueling once, but he couldn’t grasp the cards.

The air was hot. Maybe he had a fever, or maybe his anger was baking the oxygen. No, it wasn’t his anger. Was it?

There were other passageways. Passageways of stone rather than metal. Sometimes when he was walking, his legs sank deeper than the ground, and he found the yellow-stone tombs. His father walked those halls, but he walked them as a corpse with unseeing eyes. His footprints were blood. If Marik tried to hide, there were always pools of blood when he looked down.

 _I’m sorry._ He tried to say it, but he didn’t have a voice to apologize just as he didn’t have arms to hug himself, didn’t have eyes to cry. He was nothing. Just a floating idea in changing scenery.

Something trickled from above. Orange sand. Metal or stone, whatever his surroundings, it always rained orange.

_“How does it feel? To have your mind unraveled by guilt.”_

Unlike the voices outside, there was one voice he always heard with perfect clarity, a whisper in the dark that made him tremble.

_“You asked for power. You wanted to kill.”_

He couldn’t answer it. He could only listen.

_“You enjoyed it.”_

Each time it spoke, the orange sand rained harder, filling the air until Marik could hardly breathe. He tried to run from the voice, to hide from it as he hid from his father’s walking corpse. He searched for an exit, longed for one, tried to remember a life where the sky was blue instead of orange, where the air was cool and clean.

There were moments he _almost_ reached it. Moments of clarity where he called for help.

But no one answered.

 _“No mercy for murderers.”_ The voice was laughing at him; he could hear the invisible smile.

He sank into the tomb more often, could hardly pull himself from it, and at every corner, his father’s corpse waited, staring him down with empty eyes. He wanted to scream, but when he tried, he screamed with his father’s voice, and the sound cracked his spirit.

After an eternity in his unfeeling maze, Marik realized there was no escape in his future. He could keep trying, facing his skeletons at every turn, losing his mind granule by orange granule—or he could stop. He could stop, and he could sink. The realization brought a bit of sadness, a great wave of relief, and an outpouring of sand. The sand gathered at his feet. It soaked in the blood, clumped and turned red. Another layer collected, then another, and soon the red was buried. Marik could no longer move; he was trapped to the knees. He didn’t care. Let it rain.

But another voice stirred in the darkness.

It teased at his mind. Familiar. Soft.

 _Who’s there?_ He still didn’t have a voice, but as he strained to hear, the falling sand slowed, quieted its own sound at his command.

He caught it in snatches. Feelings more than words—ideas like understanding, comfort, and a phrase that echoed in his heart: _It wasn’t your fault._

 _“It was!”_ hissed the condemning voice. _“You asked for it. You enjoyed it.”_

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Anzu. Anzu, the stupid, reckless girl who’d tracked him down, brought him food, let him speak his mind.

_“You’re a murderer, Marik.”_

That wasn’t what Anzu called him. She called him a friend. Even after she knew what he’d done, she called him a friend.

_“You have no friends. Only people you control.”_

No, he had just the one. Even after he’d controlled her, after he’d cut her, after he’d shown his worst sides. He didn’t deserve it, but maybe there were other things he didn’t deserve.

 _It wasn’t your fault._ Marik clung to the words, grasped them without hands and spoke them without a voice. Inch by inch, he dragged himself from the sand.

And he kept searching for the exit to his cage.

++++++++++

Yori was in a cage. It wasn’t anyone else’s doing; it was her own. It was the first idea she’d had to protect herself from the beast.

She’d collapsed in the middle of her conversation with Seto only to wake up somewhere lightless. The dark stretched in every direction, no buildings, no edges, just dark. And it was no doubt the dark that saved her because she heard the beast before it saw her. She’d tried running first, but she couldn’t outrun it forever—the tingle on her arms told her it was faster, stronger.

So she’d thought of the cage, and the bars had suddenly appeared around her. She had Seto to thank for the idea—his talk of tigers in cages. Except in Yori’s case, the cage was her protection from the tiger.

“Come out, come out, little girl,” it purred, rippling the darkness. “I’ll get to you sooner or later.”

“Over my dead body,” Yori muttered.

“Your body is mine now. I can arrange that.”

Maybe it could. Yori was in completely new territory. She wasn’t an idiot; she knew she was facing the consequence of losing her shadow game with Marik. She just didn’t know what that consequence entailed. Or how to beat it.

“So how does this end?” she called out. “Either you catch me or I outlast you?”

“There is no ‘or.’ I’ve swallowed you, body and soul. When I lick the last bit, you’ll disappear forever.”

“Just try it. I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Fly from your coop, then.”

The cage rattled, the metal floor vibrating beneath Yori’s feet. Her eyes strained in the dark, and she caught what might have been the shadow of movement.

“No thanks,” she said. “It’s rent-free, and I’m strapped for cash.”

If she imagined her switchblade, she held her switchblade, the leather grip familiar and firm under the curl of her fingers. But there was no guarantee an imagined knife would be any good against the prowling shadow monster Yori hadn’t seen. It spoke like a human; maybe that’s all it was, but wouldn’t it be ironic if she counted on that, leapt from hiding, and poked her little knife in a beast the size of Seto’s Obelisk.

While the dark certainly had its benefits, it had its drawbacks, too. And the wrong gamble would cost her everything.

She tried imagining the monster away. If it worked with cages and knives, it was at least worth a shot. But after a moment of silence, the same scratchy voice returned: “You can’t hide forever.”

“Who says I can’t?” Of course, Yori had no intention of hiding forever. She was, at heart, a fighter.

And just because she was in a cage didn’t mean she couldn’t go anywhere.

 _“Each item is limited by the imagination and strength of its user.”_ That was what the spirit of the ring had told her in their shadow game. _“You think all the bracelet can do is see spirits?”_

She closed her eyes and calmed her breath, focusing all her attention on the bracelet. If she was trapped in her own mind—which she was certain she was—it was still on her wrist. Based on what Ishizu had said when she’d handed over the necklace, not just anyone could wield a Millennium Item.

The beast couldn’t.

But Yori could.

“What are you doing?” the beast growled.

Yori felt the heat on her wrist, and she smiled. “Being imaginative.”

++++++++++

Though the doctor urged him to sleep, Yami kept watch at Yori’s bedside all night long. At one point, he tried speaking to Yuugi, but he was again met with only silence. It worried him more than he cared to admit. Soon enough, Yuugi would need to return to the real world; since it wasn’t his natural state, he could never stay a spirit for too long. Yami didn’t want the boy to return to a world he currently found too overwhelming.

More than that, it wasn’t like Yuugi to keep completely to himself, no matter what was wrong.

//I’m still here, partner,// Yami said finally. He wasn’t sure what else to say, and he couldn’t escape the pit in his stomach that told him this was all his fault. Marik certainly was, but more than that, there was everything Shadi and Marik had implied about the Millennium Items, about the past, about . . .

 _“Within the puzzle,”_ Shadi had said, _“is the heart that started it all.”_

Maybe Shadi was right. Self-pity was certainly an unbecoming color if Yami was to blame for all his problems in the first place.

The light in the room suddenly increased—and not from any overhead lighting.

It was Yori’s bracelet.

Yami lurched forward in his seat, clutched her hand. “Yori?”

Half of him was terrified of seeing her eyes open only to realize it wasn’t really her. The other half clung to hope.

But her eyes didn’t open. In fact, she showed no changes at all. And slowly, the glow faded.

Yami thought of the maze he’d been trapped in when he’d seen Osiris. He swallowed. He kept one hand on Yori’s while he reached the other to gently brush her face.

//Come back to me,// he said silently, willing her to hear. //Please.//

But the rest of the night passed with no change, and when the overhead system announced breakfast in the lounge, she was as unmoving as ever. The doctor came in to check her vitals, and there were no changes there either.

“You’ve been here all night, sir,” the man said, setting his clipboard aside. “The holographic system is strenuous, and even with the vitals of a prize fighter, I’m afraid I must insist you at least take breakfast before competing. Unless you intend to withdraw.”

“I can’t withdraw,” Yami whispered, eyes fixed on Yori’s slack features, still hoping this would be the moment she’d wake.

“Then you must head to the lounge. Doctor’s orders.”

Yami hesitated, then forced himself to his feet. Before he left, he gently traced her hairline as he’d done several times throughout the night, imagined she could somehow feel his touch, somehow follow it back to him.

//Wait for me,// he said. //I’ll beat Marik, and I’ll save you. I promise. Just wait for me.//

“We’ll try waking her again in a bit,” the doctor said. “See if the episode has passed.”

“Don’t.” Yami swallowed. “I mean, wait until after the finals. Please. If you can.”

The doctor regarded him for a moment, then nodded as if understanding. “You’d like to be here when we do.”

It wasn’t the reason, but nevertheless, Yami nodded.

“We’ll wait. Just come here when the tournament concludes.”

“Yes, sir.”

And even though it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, Yami checked his Duel Disk, checked his deck—

—and then he walked out the door without a backward glance.


	23. Underdog

Joey couldn’t remember a time he’d been happier. He’d spent most of the night in the employee lounge, burning through opponents, handing out tips after each victory like he was Yuugi or something—“You need more support cards to balance your monsters, pal; don’t just count on attack strength to win”—things Yuugi had taught him months before that were now ingrained in his duelist soul. He’d gone through Serenity’s new deck and stood at her back while she faced her first opponent. He’d shown her how to summon monsters, how to set traps, and he’d laughed along with her when someone in the audience said, “Look at that fierce glow she’s got! We’ll have another tournament winner soon.”

After some begging from the audience, he and Ryou had even joined up for a tag match. Joey had only ever played tag matches with Yuugi (or maybe it had been the pharaoh), but nevertheless, he’d done his best to shake off the shivers at Ryou’s occult cards and work to support the albino. And he didn’t completely understand it, but after their team won the game, Ryou had thanked him quietly and said, “I needed that, mate.” Joey didn’t have to understand it to appreciate it, so he just slapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “Anytime, pal.”

And throughout all the games, all the distractions, Joey had stolen glances at the mint-eyed girl hanging back from the crowd, and each time, she’d given him a gentle smile that melted his heart. Even as staff members began to peel away and head for the bunks, she stayed.

Tristan had wandered in somewhere in the middle of all the duels, but he’d been the first to wimp out and head to bed. (“My blood sugar’s already gonna kill me tomorrow as is,” he said. Joey had gotten used to watching the guy stab himself with needles a few times a day, but he never envied it.) When Serenity finally said she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, Krisalyn volunteered to find her a bed.

“I’ll take good care of her,” she promised Joey.

“I’m trustin’ you,” he said back.

That was it, but even a two-sentence conversation was enough to make him feel like the floor had suddenly lifted and every step was a bit harder to find.

He and Ryou finally made their way back to the finalist’s rooms around 5:30 AM, and Joey collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep that was interrupted by someone very rudely pounding on his door. When he stumbled out of bed, still clutching his pillow, it was his sister he found in the hall.

“Morning, Joey!” she said, a hundred times too chipper. “Breakfast time!”

He dropped his pillow on her head, and she giggled.

“’Time’s it?” He covered a yawn.

“8:00. They just announced breakfast in the lounge, and we’re supposed to be landing any minute. Come look!”

She grabbed his arm, dragging him from his room until they reached one of the big viewing windows on the side of the blimp. The ocean water sparkled blue and white in the morning sun, and ahead of them, their island destination awaited.

“That lousy Kaiba!” Joey pressed his face to the glass, squinting for a better view. “Filthy rich and he couldn’t spring for a real beach?!”

The island was hardly glamorous. It was covered in wreckage like someone had dropped a bomb on it. The only intact part seemed to be an enormous tower, rising from the ground like a steel skyscraper. Not a single palm tree in sight.

“I think it’s awesome!” Serenity’s eyes sparkled like the water. “It’s like a post-apocalyptic playing field where you’ll battle to be not only the world’s greatest, but its sole survivor. I hope there are robots.”

Joey mussed her hair. “The lack of sleep’s gotten to your brain, sis.”

They headed to the lounge. Mai was already there, filling a plate from the giant breakfast spread. No one else had arrived yet.

“I see the strategy here.” Joey smirked. “You were gonna clear out the food before the rest of us could show up. Then we’d all be hungry and weak through the finals, leavin’ you the winner.”

Mai sighed dramatically. “Ah, my evil plan has met its end. Now I reluctantly must share my spoils.”

As Joey filled two bowls of rice porridge and Serenity moved for the omelets, Mai glanced at the door.

“You have not seen Anzu?” she asked.

Joey shook his head, since he’d stuck a piece of toast in his mouth.

“She was not there when I returned to Odion’s room.”

He shrugged. After he made it to a table and set his food down, he said, “I’m sure she’s with Yuug’.”

Mai seemed to accept that. She and Serenity joined him at the table, and after a “So which is your favorite sea creature?” from Mai, Serenity went off on a bunch of marine biology stuff that made Joey’s head spin.

“Hey,” he protested at one point, “when did you get so much smarter than me?”

She gave a cheeky smirk. “Birth.”

He pushed her chair with his foot, almost tipping her off it, but she only laughed.

“Ask of her athletic pursuits, mon cher. She will surprise you even more.”

“Do I dare?” Joey grinned. “A’ight, lay it on me.”

And his little sister told him she was practically a pro tennis player.

“Not pro!” She blushed. “Honestly, my vision got bad enough, Coach wouldn’t let me on the court anymore. Now when I get back, I have to make up a whole season’s lost ground.”

“You’ll do it in a day,” Joey said.

Her blush darkened, and she lifted her plate to hide her face. Mai and Joey snickered.

“Time for seconds!” he announced, gathering up his empty plate and bowls. But just as he stood, a face in the doorway caught his eye.

And suddenly, he couldn’t care less about food.

“Be right back,” he amended, dumping everything in his arms into the trash.

He slipped into the hallway and came face-to-face with Krisalyn. Before he could even say hi, she was blushing, and she held a hand out, fist closed. She had her laptop tucked under her other arm.

“What’s this?” Joey stuck his hand out, heart thumping.

She dropped a little toy in his hand, except when he held it up to his eyes, he realized it wasn’t a toy at all. It was a tiny glass piglet. It was a bit cartoony in feature—closed eyes, wide smile, floppy ears—but the detail in the glass was incredible, all the way down to the little curly-fry tail.

“I . . .” Joey didn’t know what to say, but when he looked up, Kris was smiling.

“At home, we call it glücksschwein,” she said. “A good luck pig. I bring him to all my competitions, and my luck has been steady so far. Hopefully he’ll bring the same to you.”

It was Joey’s turn to blush. “You heard that thing with the barkeep yesterday.”

Immediately, he realized he’d put his foot in his mouth again—she couldn’t overhear a conversation like he could. He just wasn’t used to being around someone who . . .

But she gave a modest shrug and moved on like he’d never said anything stupid. “I saw enough.”

“I can’t! I mean, you don’t gotta—” He tried to hand the pig back, but she wouldn’t take it.

“You were an amateur in Duelist Kingdom,” she said, “against professionals. But you were brave nonetheless, and you worked hard nonetheless. You’re doing the same here. When we’re at a disadvantage but still trying our hardest, it’s acceptable to wish for a little luck.”

Joey shook his head helplessly. He closed his fingers over the glass luck charm, careful not to squeeze hard.

“You’re incredible, you know?” There was still color in his face, but he didn’t mind. “And way too nice to me.”

“No such thing.” She smiled, as stunning as ever. She didn’t have the twisted braid-bun today; instead, her hair was gathered in a braid that looped her head. Joey didn’t care so much about hairstyles, but it said something about her that she somehow found time in the middle of the hectic tournament for the things she cared about. Styling her hair. Doing her makeup.

Visiting him.

Suddenly, Krisalyn nodded down the hall. “I have to get back.”

“Already?” Joey’s heart dropped. “Come on, you gotta tell me how you know so much about me.”

“I . . .” Her hesitation was clear, so Joey pressed on.

“You gotta give me somethin’. Pegasus didn’t wave info around like Kaiba, so we at least gotta talk about Duelist Kingdom. You said you compete. Were you there?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Checked her silver watch.

“I’ll walk you to the staff room!” he burst out, repeating it after she frowned a little, in case she’d missed it.

“I’m not headed to the staff room.” Her smile returned. “But if it’s not a bother, the company would be nice.”

 _If it’s not a bother._ Like he was doing _her_ some favor when really she was bending backwards just to be seen with a goon like him. He felt like maybe he should offer her his arm or something, so he swung it vaguely—then chickened out and turned it into some kind of stupid let’s-get-going gesture.

She laughed. He didn’t blame her. She tilted a palm in her own gesture, a much more graceful “after you” type, and though part of him wanted to bolt for the hills, he started walking next to her.

++++++++++

Tristan felt as rested as if he’d slept on a bed of rocks. It was his own fault for staying up so late, but his mood didn’t benefit from knowing the source of his suffering. After all the male staff had already left, he finally dragged himself from his borrowed bunk, changed into his previous day’s clothes, and stumbled his way to the lounge.

Mai greeted him as he entered; she and Serenity were the only two in the room besides the bartender.

Even though he would have loved to look at the Western-style breakfast options, Tristan grabbed a bowl of rice porridge because it was the first thing he saw and he was too tired to be picky. He dropped into the empty seat beside Mai.

“Joey?” he asked.

“He said he’d be right back. That was, like, ten minutes ago.” Serenity glanced at the empty seat beside her that still had a half-full glass of water. Then she leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I think he’s talking to Kris. The really pretty maid.”

“Good for him.” Tristan meant it, but it came out almost deadpan.

Ryou entered the lounge, covering a yawn. He had his glasses on, so he must have been too tired for contacts. Tristan was afraid to ask how late he and Joey had stayed up in the end. Joey and Yuugi were the biggest night-owls of their group, but Ryou pulled his fair share of all-nighters if he got sucked into a game. At least Anzu was on Tristan’s side—she hated staying up late even if she didn’t have dance practice the next morning (which she usually did).

“This seat taken?” Ryou asked, gesturing at Joey’s empty chair after he’d gathered a plate of food.

Serenity let out a dramatic sigh. “It has been abandoned in favor of a pretty face. I don’t know if it will ever recover from the defeat.”

Although Serenity was miles more mature than her brother, every once in a while, the resemblance was almost uncanny. Tristan smiled along with Ryou while the albino took his seat.

But his smile died when Serenity announced she was going to take breakfast to her boyfriend.

Mai’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, it’s official, ma chère?”

Serenity blushed, an adorable expression completely wasted on Duke Devlin.

“Does Joey know?” Tristan asked before he could stop himself.

“We talked,” she said.

“I recall Joey once threatened shotgun consequences for any boy who approached you before your eighteenth birthday.” Ryou gave a cheeky grin. “So you must have rolled critical persuasion.”

“He’s talked to you guys about me _dating?”_ Serenity’s blush darkened several shades, and she groaned.

Ryou laughed, but it was a gentle, almost pained sound. “Don’t be too hard on him, mate. Big brothers always look out for their sisters.”

Damn, sometimes Tristan completely forgot Ryou’s family background.

“Since Joey’s not here,” he said quickly, “here’s my concerned face on his behalf.”

He tried to imitate Joey’s suspicious scowl, earning a laugh from Serenity that pinched his heart.

“No touchin’ allowed,” he said, trying and failing to mimic Joey’s accent as well. “Four feet away at all times. Back here in ten minutes or Dice-boy’s a dead man.”

“Best tell her some kind of fierce background story that supports your ability to carry out threats,” Ryou added.

“Actually, I’m useless in a fight without my buddy Tristan. But he’d be happy to put Devlin in the hospital if he steps one toe out of line.”

Serenity clapped politely. “A-plus impersonation. Joey would be so proud. Or he might fight you for that last part.”

“Oh, he’d definitely fight me. But he’d lose because it’s true.”

She laughed again. It was like freaking music, and a dark part of Tristan’s soul was glad she didn’t live with Joey so he wouldn’t have to keep being tortured by it after the tournament. Then again, if she’d lived with Joey, he would have had plenty of chances to get to know her without Duke in the picture.

“I’m glad Joey has such good friends,” Serenity said.

That was Tristan in a nutshell: good friend. He should have been happy with the praise. Instead, he felt like an extra on a stage of more important people.

Serenity filled a plate and headed off, but just as she was leaving, the pharaoh rounded the corner and almost ran into her. After an awkward moment, she apologized, then continued on her way, and the pharaoh took her empty seat without even glancing at the food table.

“Dude, you look awful.” Tristan had thought _he’d_ had a rough night. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“I require none to function,” the pharaoh said. “A perk of being deceased.”

Mai gave him the weirdest look for that, and Tristan felt a pang of sympathy.

“There’s more than enough food,” he suggested, trying to change the topic for her sake.

The effort turned out to be meaningless, since the response was, “Another unrequired luxury.”

So at the next weird look from Mai, Tristan shook his head and said, “Don’t ask. Really.”

“Yori’s the same?” Ryou asked quietly.

The pharaoh’s expression darkened. “Until I beat Marik.”

“You’ll get him,” Tristan said.

“When does the first match begin?”

“I haven’t heard any details,” Ryou said. “I imagine we’ll find out after we land.”

Just as he said it, the floor vibrated slightly, and Tristan’s stomach lifted. He’d been feeling the minor changes since just before breakfast, so they must have been lowering in altitude for a while.

“I guess it’s any minute now.” Tristan said. “I’m curious to hear how the finals will work with five people. Not exactly even for matchups.”

The pharaoh gave a distracted nod. Mai excused herself from the table, saying she wanted to check on Odion once more before landing. Ryou finished his food and then excused himself as well. Tristan needed an insulin shot, which meant getting his backpack from the staff room, but he sat there for another minute, trying to decide if there was something he could do.

“Have you got a plan to beat Marik’s god card?”

The pharaoh gave another distracted nod. Even if he’d said no, what could Tristan have done? He was familiar with the game, but he wasn’t a duelist himself. He’d be no use for strategies. Better for the pharaoh to talk to Joey. Or Yuugi, however that worked.

“You’ll get him,” he said again, feeling useless.

When he left the table, he wasn’t sure the pharaoh even noticed. But that was the thing about being an extra; except for a rare moment here and there, Tristan was unnecessary. He hadn’t really felt it during Duelist Kingdom, but he certainly did during Battle City. Normally, he and Anzu stuck together as the non-duelists of the group, but even she had disappeared.

For a moment, Tristan wondered if his friends would even notice if he skipped the finals. Then he rolled his eyes and told himself to man up. The tournament wasn’t about him; it never had been.

So he went to find his backpack and listened for the overhead announcement that would tell him what was next in store for his best friends.

++++++++++

Krisalyn von Schroeder had been sent to Battle City with one purpose. Meeting Joey Wheeler along the way had just been a happy accident.

He said something as he walked beside her. She smiled and kept her eyes straight ahead, tapping the ear closest to him. At home, she never let people stand at her profile, not only because she couldn’t read lips in her peripheral vision but also because she didn’t like people to see her hearing aids. She knew they stared. Especially her mother. Always with that same disappointed look.

But infiltrating KaibaCorp, she was unsupervised—which meant she didn’t have to wear the confounded things at all, and there was nothing her mother could do about it, no lecture she could give on all the noble sacrifices made for Krisalyn to have the “tools to combat her disability.”

So there was nothing in her ear, nothing behind it, and she wasn’t afraid to let Joey stand beside her, to stare directly at her and see nothing that wasn’t _her._ Even if it meant more guesswork in communication.

After she tapped her ear, a glimpse of his betrayed expression was enough to make her laugh. He stepped directly into her path, walking backwards in order to face her.

 _Walking and talking,_ she was pretty sure he said. _I see the trick now._

With her best innocent expression, she shrugged. “A maid’s gotta work.”

His heel snagged on something, and he almost fell. She grabbed his arm, holding him up, and his return grin left her a little breathless. When her older brother had first told her of the underdog from Pegasus’s tournament—the duelist who’d snuck in without an invitation and somehow claimed the cash prize, the duelist who’d beaten cheaters and champions alike despite having a deck of mismatched cards from the cheapest booster packs—she’d expected Joey Wheeler to be impressive in real life, expected him to be talented and determined. And he was.

It was the handsome she hadn’t expected. His honey-wheat hair was as wild as his spirit, and it brought out a touch of gold in his fierce brown eyes. His expressions shouted for him, filling the air with boisterous energy whenever he was around—his smile especially, which seemed to come as much from his soul as from his features.

He was unlike anyone Krisalyn had ever met before.

 _Fine, you do the talking._ Joey stepped back while she tried to fight the heat rising in her face. _Just tell me about Duelist Kingdom._

Unfortunately, Duelist Kingdom involved her brother, which meant it was off-limits to talk about.

“I’m not a duelist,” she said. “Card games weren’t what I meant when I said I compete.”

He frowned thoughtfully. She didn’t quite catch what he said; she was still adjusting to how quickly he spoke, and she was almost certain he had an accent. But it wasn’t hard to imagine.

She smiled. “Take a guess.”

_Debate team?_

Well, it was nice to know he didn’t put a limit on her communication skills. She shook her head.

_Math stuff?_

“Like an Olympiad? Not quite.” He’d stayed away from the most obvious category of competition in history. Krisalyn was aware she didn’t look like a traditional athlete, but it was still amusing that he pegged her for intellectual competition first. Her older brother was much more suited to battles of wits than she.

“Don’t let the heels fool you,” she said. “I’m very quick on my feet.”

_You a dancer?_

Close enough. “I’m afraid ice dancing is the sport next door. I’m in women’s figure skating.”

His jaw dropped, and she enjoyed the moment.

_You’re one of those girls in the Olympics! What, seriously?_

She couldn’t blame him if he wasn’t aware figure skating existed outside the Olympic rink; he wouldn’t be the only one. And Krisalyn would make it to such a rink, even if her window was closing fast now that she’d turned eighteen without qualifying.

Her coach would tell her she had no chance if she kept putting her brother’s problems before her practices—Battle City alone had cost her several days of training. But she couldn’t say no to Zigfried. She’d never been able to.

Joey said something else enthusiastic that was lost as he spun away, slapping a hand to his forehead. Krisalyn bit back her smile and continued walking. After a few moments, he caught up. She glanced at him, but he didn’t speak. He kept pace with her down the next two hallways, then touched her shoulder lightly as he came to a stop.

He was staring at the lucky charm she’d given him, and his expression had lost its lightheartedness. _You’re miles above me, Kris. Why even give me the time of day?_

It made her heart hurt.

“You’re not great at Japanese,” she said.

Color shot to life in his face.

“Neither am I,” she hurried to add. “You hear it, right? My lisp?” Krisalyn certainly couldn’t forget it was there with all of her mother’s constant reminders. “No matter how many language tutors my parents pay, they can’t quite fix me.”

 _It’s beautiful!_ Joey protested, and then they were both blushing.

Krisalyn had to struggle for a moment before she could get her words back. “I’m not miles above you, Joey. I think we’re kindred spirits.”

When she’d asked her parents to let her skate professionally, she’d been told in no uncertain terms that with her “handicap,” it wasn’t even worth being called a pipe dream. From what she understood, Joey had faced similar shutdowns when he’d entered the dueling arena.

She smiled. “We’re the underdogs.”

Then she saw the time on her watch.

Before she could think twice, she grabbed his hand. “I have to go. Good luck in the finals!”

She bolted down the hallway without looking back, and when she made it to her destination, he hadn’t followed. She scanned her employee badge, and the door slid aside. The interior of the room lit up as she stepped inside. It was smaller than the previous control room she’d worked in, with just two cramped stations. She sat at the first one, settled her laptop on the open desk space, and attached it to the control panel.

Then she sent an email message: _Ready._

 _You’re late,_ came the reply. Zigfried was always prompt.

_It’s busy being a KaibaCorp employee._

_Don’t even jest. If you actually worked for him, I’d die._

_Even if I smuggled you trade secrets?_

Z made no response to that, and Krisalyn winced. She should know better than to make light of sensitive subjects.

She closed her email and watched the computer screen. Z had remote access, and no matter how many times she saw it, she always considered it unnerving to watch her laptop act possessed while he scoured Kaiba’s system. The minutes ticked by, measured only by her watch, since the light in the room was completely artificial.

Eventually, the blimp landed. After flying all night, it was a little startling to suddenly feel so solid and heavy. Krisalyn checked her watch again. No doubt there had been an announcement with tournament details, but the radio announcements were useless to her.

Was Joey already gone?

Would she have a chance to watch him in the finals?

Everything on her laptop screen came to a halt, and Zigfried emailed again.

_Nothing. 15 minutes._

Her brother wouldn’t tell her what he was searching for, but he was insistent he had to find it today and it had to come from the airship’s system. Krisalyn would have expected any of KaibaCorp’s sensitive information to be under lock and key on its home servers, but she wasn’t the expert here.

She unhooked her laptop. She had fifteen minutes to get into the next control room without witnesses. There were only two left to check, and the final one would be the hardest—it was the main control room, and though she knew Kaiba had the blimp on an autopilot system, there was still a staff member present to ensure no hiccups. Hopefully Z would find what he was looking for in the next room so she wouldn’t have to figure out an excuse to access the main controls.

There was another reason to hope the search would end quickly—as long as Zigfried was still searching, she wouldn’t get a chance to see Joey duel.

But it wasn’t like she’d come to the tournament for enjoyment. She’d been sent to Battle City with one purpose: to help her brother get revenge on Seto Kaiba.


	24. Haunted

It was Mokuba’s idea to visit Yori before landing. In truth, Seto had thought about checking on her during the night but resisted, focusing his attention on strategy rather than sentiment. The doctors were keeping her sedated, so visiting was pointless; that was what he’d told himself. Yet when Mokuba suggested the idea, he didn’t protest.

As soon as they entered the med bay, the on-duty nurse bowed to Seto and gave a report: They’d monitored Yori through the night, and there were no apparent problems. Without equipment for a brain scan, they could detect nothing physical, and without waking her, they could detect nothing psychological.

“This next batch of sedative will wear off just after the tournament ends,” she said. “We’ll evaluate how she’s feeling at that time.”

Meaning see if she was going to launch into another screaming, animalistic attack or if she’d returned to the gentle pickpocket who knew how to palm cards and save lives.

“It isn’t right,” Mokuba said, a vague statement that echoed in Seto’s heart nonetheless.

The nurse gave a practiced smile. “In rare cases during solid-vision testing, the holograms _did_ incite hallucinations. After a full day in the tournament under constant stress and exposure, it’s possible something like that occurred. We have no reason to believe she won’t be back to normal when she wakes.”

No reason. Except Marik’s mind control. And the white-robed man who’d appeared and disappeared without a trace. And the cloud of black fog during Yori’s duel that had stood firmer than the best brick wall.

No reason except the strange vision Seto still couldn’t explain and the way Yori had calmed as he’d had it.

“Likely hallucinations,” Seto said, despite the fact that barely 0.001 percent of users had suffered such a thing during testing and none without a prior history of mental concerns. But 0.001 percent was better than “magic.”

“Not likely,” Mokuba said, as helpful as ever.

Seto took a deep breath. “We’ll be landing soon.”

“You’re going to fight Marik, aren’t you?”

In the awkward silence, the nurse excused herself.

There was no point to answering.

“I know you didn’t sleep last night,” Mokuba said. “You’ve been working on strategies to beat his god card.”

When Marik had played it in his duel against Yori, the Duel Disk had transmitted all of its data to a KaibaCorp satellite as usual. Although he’d missed truly seeing the card in action, Seto had been able to study its text to learn its abilities, which were formidable in every way.

“I won’t lose,” Seto said.

Mokuba frowned. “I know you won’t.”

The automatic response was comforting until Mokuba added, “Didn’t it bother you at all that you could read the card?”

It was Seto’s turn to frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought you would run it through translation software, but you never did. You just started taking notes and calculating probabilities. So obviously you could read it.”

Seto’s frown only deepened.

Mokuba shook his head. “Maybe before the qualifier, you should take another look. It’s all hieroglyphs, Seto. And I know Gozaburo made you learn a lot, but he didn’t make you learn Egyptian.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“Look again, then tell me that.”

But it was pointless; Mokuba never lied. Not to Seto.

And Seto really didn’t want to look. What was the point of adding one more variable to his unbalanced equation?

“I have to prep for the qualifier.”

They both knew he was already prepared, but Mokuba didn’t argue further.

++++++++++

Yuugi had almost adjusted to being dead. He was no longer worried about book reports, at least.

Instead, he was worried about Yori, who was basically in a coma for a reason he didn’t understand and no one could tell him. He was worried about Yami, who had to be out of his mind panicking about Yori but was about to fight Marik half-focused anyway. He was worried about Joey, who was obviously head-over-heels for a girl with ulterior motives that involved the airship’s control systems.

He was worried about Anzu, who was . . . well, praying.

Ishizu was the only one who spoke, technically, but Anzu sat with her, eyes closed, hands folded gently in her lap while Ishizu prayed aloud for the intervention of Osiris.

Yuugi had discovered the scene by accident. As it turned out, one of the perks of being dead was that he could instantly be with someone just by thinking of them. His previous experiences as a spirit had been bound to the puzzle—he’d never been able to wander far from it. Now he seemed to be bound to nothing, and he could go anywhere with just a thought. It would have been awesome if it were a superpower. As a side-effect of the disease of mortality, it was a bit less exciting.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” Anzu whispered at one point after Ishizu made a significant pause. The girl’s face burned bright red, and she peeked through one eye. “Since I’m not . . . you know.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Ishizu kept her eyes closed. “No one is forbidden from prayer.”

Yuugi desperately wished he knew what the heck was going on. Anzu hadn’t spoken to him since . . .

Since right before they got on the blimp.

When she’d said she thought Marik needed help.

“Anzu, be careful,” he moaned.

But of course, she couldn’t hear him.

“If Osiris is the reason Odion is . . .” Anzu swallowed. “Do you really think he’ll, you know, be willing to change it?”

“Once again, I wouldn’t know.” Ishizu finally opened her eyes. She touched her bare neck absently. “All I know is that Osiris is a merciful god, acquainted with familial grief.”

“He’s the one who was killed by his brother.”

Yuugi and Ishizu both blinked like owls.

Anzu’s face reddened again. “Marik taught me.”

“My broth—” Ishizu pressed a hand to her mouth, then tried again. “My brother taught you of the gods? _Willingly?”_

“Maybe you don’t give him enough credit.”

Yuugi wished he’d talked to Anzu. Wished he’d paid more attention to his friends. Instead, he’d let himself be swept up in the tournament, contented himself to let Yami take the reins and handle the duels, all the while never imagining there was so much happening outside the cards.

“No. I’m certain now that I don’t.” Ishizu climbed to her feet, brushing gently at her white dress. “We should visit Odion. Hopefully he has awoken.”

As Yuugi thought of Odion, he was no longer in Ishizu’s room; instead, he was in the cramped, improvisational medical room with Odion.

And the dark-skinned Egyptian was indeed awake. He blinked slowly, then tried to sit up, only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, monsieur,” Mai said with a soft smile. “You are still not recovered. But I am glad to see you awake.”

He grabbed her hand urgently. “Master Marik?”

“Your unfriendly companion? He is unfriendlier than ever.”

Odion’s face crumpled. “He . . .”

Yuugi wondered about Marik, but he didn’t dare go look. He kept his focus with Odion and Mai.

Mai took a heavy breath. She shifted closer to Odion’s bed, never pulling her hand from his. “He is your brother, no?”

Odion didn’t seem to have an answer for that.

“Family is not a simple thing.” When Odion tried to stand, she stopped him again. “Your concern for your brother is moving, monsieur. But your health comes first.”

“Why are you here?” He swallowed. “You know nothing about me.”

“Nonsense.” She smiled. “You are Monsieur Odion Ishtar, an honorable finalist possessing manners and loyalty. And I am here because while sickness is misery, loneliness is more so. I know the music.”

Loneliness.

Yuugi swallowed.

//Reconsidering my offer yet?// The new voice didn’t come from the room; it echoed in Yuugi’s mind. The voice of his new least-favorite god.

Yuugi didn’t reply. When he focused on Yori, he stood at her bedside along with a doctor, but unlike Odion, she still hadn’t woken. The doctor injected something into her IV tube, then watched the monitor tracking her vitals. Nothing changed.

“I thought I was saving you,” Yuugi whispered.

He’d almost adjusted to being dead, but what was the point of dying if it hadn’t even helped?

//It’s a waste for you to stay like this,// Ra said. //You’re a brilliant child with a full future. Why should she get two lives and you not even half of one?//

“You’re a god. Why do you need my permission to do whatever you want?”

Ra said nothing, but Yuugi’s mind was already working on the puzzle—had been ever since he’d realized it existed.

“You want Yori dead, but you can’t just kill her.” That was the first piece. A crucial one.

//You’d prefer I simply kill her now and leave you both dead?//

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m the King of Games. Your bluff is showing.” Yuugi’s knees shook a bit under the weight of calling out a god, but he knew truth when he saw it.

Ra fell silent, and Yuugi focused on Yami. The pharaoh was sitting in the lounge, alone at a table. He held the Millennium Puzzle in his hands, staring into its Eye of Horus.

“Did you realize I’m gone?” Yuugi’s stomach pinched at the thought. “I don’t know what it feels like for you.”

Yuugi could still feel their mental bond at the back of his mind like always, but he’d tried mental communication, and Yami hadn’t heard him any more than when he’d spoken aloud.

Still . . .

Shouldn’t the bond have disappeared when Yuugi died?

He thought of Joey’s duel with Ishizu, of the pixie snickering on the field after the supposed loss.

Maybe power over Yori’s life wasn’t Ra’s only bluff. Maybe that was the second piece.

Yuugi stepped forward, reaching for the puzzle, barely daring to hope. His hand passed through the gold, just as it did with everything else. But just as he let out a frustrated sigh—

—the puzzle glowed.

Yami started, almost dropping the object.

“Yuugi?” he said.

“I’m here!” Yuugi waved his arms like it would help his case. He even jumped in place once. “I’m right here!”

But it was obvious he was as invisible and unheard as ever.

The boy turned away, clutching his hair in frustration. Something was off. Everything was off. But it was like the time he’d found a handful of cardboard puzzle pieces under the fridge at the game shop; he didn’t have a reference picture to know what he was trying to solve, and even _he_ couldn’t solve a puzzle with only a fraction of the pieces.

He wished he could talk to his dad. His dad would know what to do.

Yuugi looked up at the ceiling, unsure how else to direct his voice to Ra. “Since I’m dead now, I’d like to see my parents, please.”

But the god didn’t answer back. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

Or maybe it was another piece of the puzzle.

“I can’t solve this one alone, partner.” Yuugi’s voice cracked as he turned back to Yami. “I need you.”

Even though Yami hadn’t heard, his face set in determined lines at that moment, and he released the puzzle.

Then he pulled the Millennium Necklace from his pocket and tied it around his neck.

++++++++++

Something was definitely wrong. After growing worried enough by Yuugi’s silence, Yami had attempted to force his way into the boy’s soul room only to find it impossible. He could sense Yuugi, but he couldn’t reach the boy, and if the puzzle’s unexpected glow had been meant as a message, Yami had been unable to interpret its meaning.

After seeing how the necklace had affected Ishizu, twisted her mind and made her believe herself omniscient, Yami was in no hurry to leash himself to the artifact, but there seemed to be little alternative. Talking the problem through with Yori would have been his first choice. That was impossible. So he was left with consulting the Millennium Item that was meant to see truth.

As soon as the gold touched his throat, he heard the whispers. The offers of power.

He ignored them, closed his eyes, and focused on his partner.

A flood of images overwhelmed him, like he’d stepped beneath the dome of a thousand TV screens all broadcasting different channels of Yuugi. Yuugi in the game shop, Yuugi with his friends, Yuugi with his mother, Yuugi doing homework, solving puzzles, learning English, walking—

If Yami hadn’t already been sitting, he might have fainted at the sheer overload, especially since the flood of images crashed against his mind with all the roaring sound to match.

His eyes snapped open, washing out the necklace’s effect. He gripped the table with both hands, trying to ground himself to the cool metal, to the near-silent lounge.

“You alright, sir?” the bartender called out.

Yami realized he was gasping for breath like he’d chased down a runaway horse. He waved off the man’s concern.

“Would you like another hojicha?”

Not without Yori. Yami shook his head. This time, he managed words: “Thank you for the offer.”

After his breathing and heartrate calmed, he closed his eyes again. This time, rather than simply focusing on Yuugi, he focused on the moment he’d last seen the boy—during Yori’s duel.

What followed was almost as upsetting as the first attempt, but for different reasons.

Yami saw Yori against a backdrop of shadows, saw the unshed tears in her eyes nearly glow under Ra’s blinding attack. He didn’t know how Yuugi put himself in the attack’s path, but he watched the light engulf them both. Yori was standing at the end of it. Yuugi wasn’t.

He opened his eyes once more, jolting back to himself in the lounge. He gripped the necklace, breathing hard again, this time thanks to the weight of guilt on his chest.

Whatever Yuugi had done to take on Ra’s attack, why hadn’t Yami thought of it first? The two people he cared most about in the world, and he hadn’t . . .

He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to think.

Following the attack from Osiris, Yami had received a visit from the god himself. It only made sense, then, that he couldn’t reach Yuugi because the boy was with Ra.

He braced himself for another flood, reached out with the necklace again—

And sure enough, he saw the boy standing in a room of blazing light. He heard the golden god’s greeting. Even without being physically present, the light in the room seemed to press against Yami’s soul, to leave his insides exposed. Ra’s face was familiar, but rather than offering comfort, the realization only made Yami squirm. He felt the god’s gaze, and he shrank from it.

He released the necklace’s power, returned to himself. Despite the cheerful overhead lighting, the room seemed dark as a tomb.

For some reason, he expected Ra to speak. Waited for it.

But he heard nothing.

With a sigh, Yami unlaced the necklace and returned it to his pocket. Yuugi was with a god, which meant his silence had not been by choice. It was surprisingly comforting. With everything else going wrong, Yami wasn’t sure he could have handled . . .

Well, his partner would return at any moment. And that was a relief.

The blimp gave an intense shudder, and Yami suddenly felt a bit heavier.

“Seems we’ve landed,” the bartender said cheerfully. “Enjoy the remainder of the finals, sir!”

Yami’s heart pinched as he remembered Yori standing in the morning sun the day before, her red hair shining in the light. _“I won’t tell you to have fun. But I’ll tell you to fight your hardest, and I’ll tell you to win.”_

 _I will,_ he thought.

He reached instinctively to adjust his jacket only to realize he’d left it with her. After he beat Marik, hopefully it would be the first thing she saw when she awoke.


	25. To Be Seen

When a knock came at his door, Duke knew immediately who it was, and his face flared with color.

The door slid aside, and there was Serenity, smiling at him.

“I brought you breakfast.” She lifted a plate of bacon, eggs, and orange slices. “If you have any food allergies, speak now.”

He wished he could match her lighthearted mood, but he hadn’t felt lighthearted all night. He gently took the plate from her and walked to what his mind had already designated as their table by the window. The food gave him an excuse not to talk, and Serenity seemed content to let the silence stand.

Halfway through the eggs, he finally couldn’t stand it.

“You’re not worried?” It was one thing for Joey to be carefree; it seemed to be one of the only two moods he was capable of. But Serenity—

“I’m worried,” she said. She kept her eyes on the window, her face relaxed, though not as lighthearted as earlier.

“It’s insanity, right? For everyone to just pretend like this is normal? I mean, I thought the supernatural stuff was a joke at first, but I literally watched a girl get stabbed, and then they said she’s fine, and then she straight-up lost her mind and had to be sedated like a . . .”

He stopped himself from saying _like a dog,_ but it was what he felt. All his mind could seem to focus on was the first time he’d seen the movie _Old Yeller,_ how he’d stared at his beloved black lab in horror and asked his mom if he’d ever have to shoot Trixie.

 _“Sweetie,”_ she’d said, _“you’ll never see a dog go rabid in your life. Not in this modern world. I told your dad not to let you watch that dumb movie.”_

He wished it would have been a dog. Seeing a person go rabid (which was the only way he could describe what had happened) was a million times worse.

“It is insane,” Serenity agreed. “All that stuff in the duel . . . watching someone’s life projected like a movie but without any footage. I can’t explain it.”

Duke shook his head. “You’re a science person. You must be going even crazier than I am.”

When she’d stayed with her brother while he walked away, he’d thought . . .

It was a relief to hear he wasn’t alone.

“I _am_ a science person.” She smiled, turned from the window to look at him. “Biology makes sense to me—the genetic reasons we act in certain ways, animal and human both. I like explanations. I like reasons.”

“Me too.” He set his fork aside, relaxed in his chair. For the first time since the previous night, he felt like he could breathe.

“When I first got into biology, I thought I would find an explanation for my parents.” She swallowed. “But I didn’t. Genetics can tell me why my mom has blue eyes and I don’t, but it can’t tell me why she left my brother. Psychology does a little better, and even if some people call it a ‘pseudoscience’—a bunch of hopes pretending to be based in the scientific method—I study it anyway. Because it gives me reasons that make sense, reasons that biology can’t offer.”

Despite bringing home straight-As most of his life, Duke suddenly felt like a slacker. He’d never paid enough attention in classes to learn the heart of what was being taught; he’d just memorized the passages and repeated them for the tests. The most enjoyment he’d ever gotten out of high school had come from PE and an elective shop class—the hands-on stuff that made him feel like he was accomplishing something in the moment.

“Then there’s religion.” Serenity’s cheeks pinked, and she gave a small, breathy laugh. “My mom thinks I’m crazy for going to church. She doesn’t believe there’s anything bigger out there except the stars. And as a ‘science person,’ it does feel a little strange sometimes, taking things on faith. But when I’m alone at night and my heart hurts, biology tells me I need a pack or a mate. Psychology tells me I’ve got unhealed trauma. Both of them give me a little hope for the future; they give me a reason and a path forward. But it’s religion that says I’m not actually alone, that says there’s a divine purpose in things I can’t always see. In those moments at midnight, religion is what actually comforts me and makes me feel like I can take that path forward and it will be worth it.”

“That’s beautiful,” Duke said. “I mean it.” He went to church sometimes with his dad, mostly for holidays or for networking opportunities, and he’d never hated it, but he’d also never felt anything like what she described. On his own lonely nights, the only comfort he ever found was the knowledge that sometimes just sticking things out to the morning made the dark bearable for another day.

“Thanks for calling it beautiful, not crazy.” Her blush had darkened, but she smiled. “For the tournament, I guess all I’m trying to say is we live in a crazy world, and maybe the answers aren’t always where we want them to be, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“It looks kind of bad so far.”

“Well, we haven’t investigated yet.” Her smile turned a bit mischievous as she leaned forward. “Just because it’s magic doesn’t mean we can’t test it with the scientific method. It could be like a science fair!”

Her enthusiasm was adorable—and it was contagious.

“I’ve never won a science fair.” Duke finally managed a smile of his own. “I blame it on my lack of a cute partner.”

She struck a pose, hands under her chin, eyelashes fluttering. “It _is_ cuteness that matters most in science, after all. Even the strongest molecules can’t resist my smile.”

Maybe they could, but Duke certainly couldn’t. He reached for her hand, stealing it from under her chin, playing with her fingers. The way she blushed made his own smile turn mischievous.

“I’m listening.” He kept his eyes on hers as he traced circles across the back of her hand with his thumb. “Tell me how to win this science fair.”

She bit her lip, clearly on the verge of a giggle. But she didn’t pull her hand away.

“It isn’t about winning,” she finally managed, and he could swear she was trying for a stern expression. “It’s about better understanding how the world works.”

“Fascinating.” He laced his fingers through hers, switched to tracing circles on her palm. “Go on.”

“First we make an observation, like the black dome during the duel. It appeared in an instant; it looked like fog, which is penetrable, but it behaved like a wall, completely impenetrable; and it displayed images like a screen despite no discernible input source.”

Funny how that dome had terrified him the night before. Sitting with Serenity in the light from the window, tracing her soft skin and enjoying her smile, the dome seemed like a faraway thing, strange but not scary.

“I’m pretty sure you just used at least three words I’ve never learned,” he teased.

To his surprise, she winced. “I’m in a private school. Mom insists, even though I know we can’t really afford it. So I try to learn everything I can. I know I can be a little—”

Duke squeezed her hand. “You’re amazing. Keep going.”

She ducked her head. “Okay, well, next we explore. What could cause a dome like that?”

“Hallucinations?” He smirked.

“Possibly. It would have to be mass hallucinations since there were so many of us present.”

“Drugs? Maybe Kaiba drugged our food.”

She laughed. “Again, all of us seeing the same thing is very unlikely. Not to mention none of us felt drugged.”

“That’s part of the effect. Kaiba’s a very sneaky mastermind.”

“I’d say the hypothesis we’re both most curious about is magic: ‘The dome was caused by magic.’ That’s the one we have to put to the test.”

“So if magic doesn’t exist, we lose the science fair, but we’re both happier for it.”

“I don’t know about that.” She squeezed his hand this time, and his heart pounded in response. “Haven’t you ever dreamed about a world with magic?”

_Not the kind that makes people rabid._

“I’ve watched a lot of movies,” he said, “and I’ve always thought a world with magic is only good if you’re one of the people who has it. Otherwise, it seems like the worst world ever.”

She considered that. When she spoke again, her voice was shy and quiet. “Well, even if magic exists and neither of us have it, you’re in this world. So I’d call it the best one.”

Duke’s breath caught.

He didn’t need a scientific method to tell him there wasn’t another girl in the world like Serenity. All his life, people had liked him because of his business or his looks or his family. He’d always had an abundance of fans and a shortage of friends, and no one had ever looked him in the eyes and made him feel _seen_ like she did in that moment.

He stood, tugging on her hand to get her to stand with him.

“Is something wrong?” Her eyes widened. “Did I—”

Duke cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her.

++++++++++

Joey couldn’t get Krisalyn’s words out of his head. They rang like music in his ears and lifted him a few giddy inches off the ground as he walked.

_“I’m not miles above you, Joey. We’re kindred spirits. We’re the underdogs.”_

She was a world-famous Olympic queen, and he was an ex-street thug who wasn’t even sure he knew what ‘kindred’ meant. But she’d said it anyway. He didn’t know what world she lived in to look at him and think they were the same, but it was a world he’d give anything to live in, too.

His good mood probably would have lasted forever had he not stumbled into that specific hallway at that specific moment. (The blimp had just landed, and he was trying to find Tristan before the finalists had to report on the ground.)

“Hey!” he barked, goofy smile turning instantly to a scowl.

His sister and Dice-boy jumped apart like he’d stuck an electric fence between them. Serenity was red as a maple leaf. Dice-boy looked a little sunburned himself, but he also looked _way_ too happy.

Joey marched forward and planted himself between the two, eyeballing Dice Devlin from head to toe.

“Joey, um, h-have the duels s-started yet?” Serenity’s voice squeaked like a mouse, just like it always did when she’d been caught rule breaking.

Joey didn’t even glance at her, his squinty eyes focused on her “boyfriend.”

“Did I just see you kissin’ my sister?” he demanded.

Serenity grabbed his arm and hissed, “Joey!”

Duke still looked smug as a rodent. “Guess you did.”

“I’ll put you six feet under, Dice-boy!” Joey fisted a hand in Duke’s stupid red vest. “I’ll bury you alive in a welded metal box and tape your screams for workout music!”

Serenity pinched his arm hard, which made him yelp and release the rat.

“I think,” she whispered, still a bit squeaky but with a slightly terrifying expression, “I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend if I want to.”

She stared him down until Joey felt like he’d been skewered in several major arteries. He began sweating like he was the one in a metal box. No matter how much the rat deserved it, Serenity wouldn’t forgive him for decking Duke; her expression made that clear.

Very reluctantly, he turned back to Devlin.

“You get one, alright?” He cleared his throat. “No more ’til she’s thirty.”

“Joey . . .” said Serenity.

“’Til she’s eighteen.”

“Joey.”

“Alright, one every six months, but you keep your filthy hands to yourself, pal. That’s my final offer.”

Duke gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Little tattooed, ponytailed, Californian sewer rat.

 _“I’m watchin’ you,”_ Joey mouthed.

“She’s the most incredible girl I’ve ever met,” Duke said, “and she’s safe with me. I promise.”

Joey wondered uncomfortably if his dad had ever said something similar about his mom. It hadn’t been the fighting that had gotten them married; something had existed before that. Still, it was something.

“I don’t trust you as far as I can kick you, Dice-boy. But I’ll hold you to that and more.”

The intercom crackled, then started an announcement: _“Attention, duelists! We have reached our destination for the concluding round of the Battle City Finals. Mai Valentine, Seto Kaiba, Yuugi Mutou, Joey Wheeler, and Marik Ishtar, please congregate at the south Duel Tower entrance in ten minutes. Audience, please meet at the north Duel Tower entrance at the same time. May the best duelist win!”_

“I’m curious how matchups will work with five finalists,” Duke said.

Joey frowned. “Me too. I ain’t never heard of a tourney where—” He stopped. Squinted. “Hey, I thought you were all up in arms about the finals continuin’.”

“I am. But if Kaiba’s determined they go on and you’re determined to compete, I hope you win.”

“Suck up,” Joey grunted.

“Are we off to the Duel Tower, then?” Serenity ducked around him and hooked her arm through Duke’s.

And though Joey’s big-brother hackles told him to walk every step with them and make sure Duke toed the line, he knew Serenity wouldn’t want that. She wanted to be with her . . . Dice-boy. Joey had promised to let that happen.

No matter how hard it was.

“You go on ahead,” he said, positive some of the words got stuck in his teeth. “I gotta find Tristan. And it’s a different entrance for duelists anyway, sounds like.”

Serenity smiled like she saw right through him, but her smile didn’t make things any easier.

He turned away, but just as he did, Duke said, “Wait a sec, Joey. Come here.”

Duke gestured for Serenity to stay put, and she and Joey exchanged a curious glance (though Joey’s was also suspicious) before Joey followed the other boy around the corner and back to his room.

“If you’re hopin’ murder’ll get me outta the way,” Joey said as the door slid closed behind him, “dream on. I’ll snap you like a Pocky stick.”

Duke snorted. He lifted a deck box from the table and thumbed through the Duel Monsters cards inside until he apparently found what he was looking for. Then he handed the chosen card to Joey.

Joey frowned. “What’s this?”

It was a seven-star monster named Orgoth the Relentless [2500/2450], stronger than anything Joey currently had in his deck (since his Red-Eyes was still with the pharaoh).

“You use warrior types, right? He’s my best warrior. My favorite, actually. Take him.”

“Hell no.” Joey tried to hand the card back, but Duke just scowled and wouldn’t take it.

“I’m not sucking up,” Dice-boy said. “I’m not trying to bribe you into liking me. You can hate me forever if you want, and I wouldn’t blame you. This is just duelist to duelist. You fought a good game in the semi-finals; you won when I thought there was no chance for a win. And after you did, I realized you’ll use Orgoth better than I ever could.”

Joey looked at the card again. It had three possible effects that were all based on a dice roll. Though he hated to admit it, it was exactly the sort of card he loved most—a little bit of luck, a whole lot of strength and heart.

He swallowed. “How much you want for it?”

“Screw you.” Duke smirked. “I wouldn’t sell my favorite card if you had a fortune to buy it with. Just use him well.”

“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with my sister? She didn’t put you up to this?”

“If you tell her, I’ll deny it ever happened.”

“Thank you,” Joey said. Surprisingly, it took less effort to say than he thought it would.

“You’re welcome. Go find Tristan or whatever. I’ll take good care of Serenity.”

Dirty little tattooed, ponytailed sewer rat.

++++++++++

Tristan had barely made it five steps from the staff room before he was practically bowled over by his best friend.

“Tristan, I been lookin’ everywhere for you, you jerk!” Joey accused, scowling.

Tristan scowled right back. “I’ve gone three places on this blimp since boarding, man. If you couldn’t find me, it’s your own dumb fault.”

“Shut up, I need your help.” Joey looked frantically up and down the hallway like they’d entered spy territory.

And it was stupid.

It was so stupid.

But knowing Joey had gone running all over the blimp looking for him, specifically needed _him,_ not anyone else—

—it made Tristan smile.

Joey huddled close and lowered his voice. “Pains me to say, but . . . I need an expert on women.”

Tristan crowed, and Joey immediately told him again to shut up.

“It’s that maid, isn’t it? You didn’t strike out after all?” Tristan elbowed him in the ribs and got elbowed in return much harder, but he didn’t care.

“All I know is flowers, but there ain’t flowers here.” Joey sighed. “Look what she gave me.”

He held up what looked like a glass pig.

Tristan squinted at it, tilted his head. “I don’t get it.”

Joey elbowed him again. “It’s a good luck charm, idiot! She says she takes it to all her competitions, and then she gave it to me. She said we’re both underdogs.”

Although Tristan still didn’t really get the details, the overall message was clear. “You did the use, wash, return?”

Joey beamed. “She was all happy I washed it, just like you said.”

“Naturally,” Tristan said, even though he’d never been given a girl’s handkerchief in his life, much less returned one. “What’s her name?”

“Krisalyn.”

“She’s not Japanese?”

“Didn’t ask. Probably not—she said her Japanese is bad like mine, and when she gave me the pig, she called it something like a glock’s vine. I dunno what language it was. She don’t sound French like Mai, that’s all I know. Oh, she’s deaf, too. And she’s in the Olympics.”

Tristan blinked.

Joey stared at him expectantly.

“If I hadn’t seen this girl with my own eyes,” he finally managed, “I’d think you were making her up.”

“Exactly!” Joey jabbed a finger at him, still holding the pig. “She’s too good to be real, right? I keep thinkin’ it, too. Even if there were flowers here, none’d be worthy of her.”

“Makes sense she’d go for you, though.”

Joey scowled. “It don’t make an inch of sense, and you know it.”

There it was—Joey’s biggest flaw.

“Dude.” Tristan hooked an arm around his best friend’s neck and squeezed, just shy of a choke hold. “Someday you’re going to have to look in the mirror and see what’s actually there, not what you’ve painted on.”

Joey squirmed out of his grasp, not meeting his eyes. “I gotta meet the other finalists in, like, thirty seconds. Just tell me what to do if I ain’t got flowers.”

After a few seconds of silent consideration, Tristan said, “Write her a note.”

“With _my_ handwritin’? She’ll think a turkey sent it.”

Tristan punched him in the arm. “The point isn’t to show off your cursive; the point is to say something meaningful. Tell her what you like about her. Tell her she’s beautiful. Girls like that anyway, but if she’s deaf, she’ll probably like it even more.”

Joey’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think of that. She probably likes written words way more than normal ones.”

“I am an expert on women, and you’re welcome. Now let’s get off this blimp before Kaiba disqualifies you for being late.”


	26. Awakening

_"They seek for you,”_ Osiris said. _“Return and fight.”_

When Odion opened his eyes, the world seemed too dark, and he thought for a moment he was in the tombs, wondered how much of life had simply been a nightmare.

Then his mind settled, and he knew the truth.

He expected his room to be empty. It should have been empty. The only person who ever would have stood at his bedside would have been Marik, but Odion had felt the lightning shatter the balance, felt one form of guilt lift from his chest only to be replaced by another.

He knew Marik was gone.

And yet his room was not empty. Instead, a woman stood at his bedside, the same blonde finalist who’d brought him dinner and introduced herself warmly at the start of the finals. She forbade him from rising, and when he asked her why she’d come, she called him honorable.

“And I am here,” she said, “because while sickness is misery, loneliness is more so. I know the music.”

Odion swallowed. He realized his hand was on hers, and he released it, yet she did not move hers from his shoulder.

“But you owe me nothing,” he said.

Ms. Valentine raised a delicate eyebrow. “It is not about owe, monsieur. It is about want. Promise you will not rise?”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. She lowered her hand and stepped back.

“I will retrieve the nurse. After your health is settled, _then_ you may see to your brother. You understand?”

Another pause, then another nod. She slipped from the room, and Odion was left in silence. The silence was not a friendly one; thoughts of Marik filled his mind, memories from that horrible time four years earlier. Odion touched his face gently, felt the scars. He’d carved them after accepting Shadi’s offer of balance, told Marik they were the symbols of shared suffering, let the boy believe it was about the initiation. It was one of the boldest things he’d ever done, but those weeks had been full of bold actions as he’d sacrificed duty and obedience for the selfishness of simply trying to keep his brother alive whether Marik wanted it or not.

Ms. Valentine returned with a doctor, and Odion straightened. The man checked his temperature, his heartrate, his blood pressure, tested his speech responses and his reflexes. In the end, he removed the IV.

“You need more rest,” he said firmly, “but it’s a vast improvement from yesterday. Welcome back. Try not to scare us again, alright? I’ll have someone on staff bring you breakfast.”

“I can do it, monsieur,” Ms. Valentine offered.

“No, I think you should stay.” The doctor smiled. “Keep our patient company.”

He exited once more, and Odion began to pull the blankets away until his fierce guardian stopped him with a raised eyebrow.

“The doctor has ordered more rest. I will not see you run frantically only to collapse again.”

Heat rose in Odion’s face. All his life, he’d been expected to care for Marik. There had never been anyone to care for him. Ms. Valentine’s insistence on it was both uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

But it wasn’t terrible. Somehow, it reminded him of that first sunrise aboveground.

“It is nice to see you smile, monsieur.” She winked. “Beneath that fierce Ghoul cape, I suspect there is a tender heart.”

He coughed. “Just Odion is fine, Ms. Valentine.”

“Then you may call me Mai, as friends do.”

“I don’t have friends.” It wasn’t a contradiction so much as a confession.

But she only smiled. “Quelle chance! I am honored to be your first.”

He couldn’t imagine why.

The door to his room opened again, but it wasn’t a doctor who entered this time, nor was it a staff member bearing a meal.

“Ms. Ishizu!” Odion almost moved to stand, then stopped himself just in time. It had been months since he’d spoken to Marik’s sister face to face; he certainly hadn’t expected a visit from her.

“You’re awake!” the girl beside her burst out, smiling widely. “I’m so glad!”

Odion could scarcely remember a time he’d been more confused.

“Oh.” The unfamiliar girl rushed forward, hand extended. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Anzu Mazaki. I’m Marik’s friend.”

If Odion thought he’d been confused a moment before, the river suddenly became a flood; Marik possessed as many friends as himself. But perhaps this girl was like Mai—the first of her kind.

With a practiced calm he didn’t feel, he shook her hand and said, “Odion Ishtar.”

The blimp gave a shudder, and everything seemed to settle with new weight.

“We have arrived, it seems.” Mai smiled at him as she reached for the door. “I must prepare for my finals.”

He nodded, surprised to feel a weight in his stomach that had nothing to do with the landing.

She winked. “Until next time, my friend.”

Then she was gone.

Odion swallowed in the silence. He looked at Ishizu. “Master Marik . . . ?”

She touched her throat, and he realized with shock the Millennium Necklace was gone. “Anzu, perhaps we should take a seat. There is much to discuss.”

Ms. Mazaki took the empty seat beside Odion’s bed, and after Odion adjusted to a more upright position, Ishizu seated herself at the foot of his bed, one arm braced on the plastic footboard. Most of what Ishizu outlined was no surprise—it was simply his worst fears realized. Marik had remembered the truth of Ahmed Ishtar’s death. His mind had been lost to the evil within the rod.

A maid arrived with breakfast, but though Odion thanked her, he had no appetite. As soon as she left, he set the plate aside.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered.

It wasn’t Ishizu who answered; it was Ms. Mazaki. “No, you’ve been a good brother. And it means everything to Marik, even if he’s too dumb to say it.”

“How . . . ?” He couldn’t even finish the question, but she laughed, rubbing her neck as if self-conscious.

“I’ve been in his mind. Well, he’s been in mine more, I guess. Item stuff, you know.”

Odion had only briefly felt the influence of the rod on his own mind, but he’d often seen the way it darkened Marik, the hold it had on his moods, the way it buried his natural warmth beneath an unnatural rage. Yet the girl at his side seemed nothing but cheerful in discussing it.

He looked to Ishizu, and to his shock, she _smiled._

“Marik taught her of the gods,” she said, as if that were explanation enough. _“Willingly.”_

Odion frowned. “He hardly speaks of them.” Such business was for tombkeepers, the boy would say.

“It wasn’t a big deal.” The girl shifted in her seat, fidgeted with her oversized bracelets. “I just asked for a crash course, and he gave me one.”

Marik never did anything he was asked. Such business was also for tombkeepers.

“You’re special to him,” Odion said, his tone one of amazement.

Her cheeks darkened to red. “I wouldn’t say that! We’re just friends.”

Friends was plenty special.

“Perhaps there is hope after all.” A weight seemed to lift from his chest, allowing him to breathe again.

“Anzu is convinced,” Ishizu said, “that Marik has not yet fully succumbed to the rod’s power. I had previously believed that the only way to save him would be to banish the rod’s darkness in a shadow game, but she believes Marik can overcome it with his own strength if we only provide the right help.”

“I’ve seen him do it,” Ms. Mazaki said fiercely.

Odion swallowed. “So have I.”

The first time the rod had consumed him, when he’d stood laughing beside his father’s corpse with the blood still fresh on his hands. Odion had stood trembling in the doorway, unsure what to do, unsure if the brother he knew even still existed. When Marik had collapsed, it had been instinct alone that had carried Odion forward. As he’d pulled the frail, starved boy into his arms, he’d expected to feel the rod pierce his own ribs. Even after he twisted Marik’s wrist, forced him to drop the artifact, that third eye still glowed on his forehead. The madness still glowed in his eyes.

Then he looked at Odion like he was seeing him for the first time, and the madness faded, and it was just Marik again, clinging to him and crying the same way he’d done before the initiation ever took place.

 _“I thought you were dead,”_ he kept saying, the words almost indiscernible amongst his sobs. _“I thought you were dead.”_

“The key will lie with the rod itself.” Ishizu tapped her thumb against the footboard, her eyes glazed in thought. “Kaiba could break its hold easily, were he willing.”

Ms. Mazaki frowned. “Kaiba?”

“In Ancient Egypt, he was one of the nameless pharaoh’s most favored high priests. He was perhaps the first to ever command the rod’s power.”

The poor girl looked like she’d swallowed her tongue, and Odion’s level of shock wasn’t far behind. Ishizu had never been forthcoming with information of the past, especially not to non-tombkeepers. She revered her duty as a guardian of sacred knowledge above her own life.

“But Kaiba is . . . Kaiba.” Ms. Mazaki shook her head. She looked to Odion as if seeking support, though he had none to offer. “Kaiba’s _Kaiba.”_

Ishizu waved a hand carelessly. “He has taken to the modern world as if he were born to it, and he is determined to maintain such a façade by the strength of his own willpower. When I first came to Japan, I called him to the museum. He looked directly at a carving of himself on an ancient tablet and refused to see it at all. So, capable or not, he will never assist us. Not when it involves his past.”

“I’m not from the past, am I?” Ms. Mazaki looked ill at the thought. “I would know.”

Odion shook his head, giving what he hoped was a reassuring look.

“Okay, good. I like my life as is, and it’s complicated enough without a big secret like that crashing through the roof.”

At that, he winced.

 _“What you did was noble,”_ Osiris had said. _“Perhaps even necessary. But the nature of secrets is the nature of a wrecking ball. Only time will tell what can survive amongst the wreckage.”_

Still unwilling to dissect his time with a god, Odion pushed it from his mind once more.

“That’s why,” he said.

Ishizu and the girl both looked at him. Waited.

“When Master Marik tried to command Mokuba Kaiba with the rod, the boy broke his control, the first ever to do so. He must hold sway with the item.”

“Kaiba’s little brother.” Ms Mazaki grinned. “He’d help us—he’s a really sweet kid.”

But Ishizu frowned. “Seto is from the past. Mokuba was born to this world. They are related only by adoption, not by blood; such a relation could never transfer the power of a Millennium Item.”

Of course. Odion looked down, sufficiently chastened. He should have known; after all, such a relation could not even transfer the title of tombkeeper.

But Ms. Mazaki stood and planted her hands on her hips, staring Ishizu down like she was chastising an unrepentant child who’d broken a dish. “Are you _blind?_ You’re sitting next to your own _brother,_ idiot. Sure, blood makes family, but more than that, _family_ makes family.”

Ishizu shifted uncomfortably, glanced at Odion. “I only meant . . . in certain circumstances, it isn’t . . .”

Ms. Mazaki cleared her throat, her stare growing even more pointed until a bit of color rose in Ishizu’s face. The silence sat heavily in the room as if it, too, had been chastised.

“I could never be a tombkeeper,” Odion finally said, his voice hoarse, “but perhaps in the case of the Kaiba siblings—”

“Excuse me?” Ms. Mazaki’s terribly piercing gaze turned on him. She couldn’t be more than sixteen years old, yet Odion suddenly felt that she was the adult and he the misguided teenager. He could hardly look her in the eyes.

“I could never be a tombkeeper—” he tried again.

“Screw tombkeepers; I’m with Marik on that one. Do you know what he said to me during your duel with the pharaoh?”

Odion swallowed. Shook his head.

“He asked me how to convince an older brother to be smart. He didn’t say ‘Odion’; he said ‘older brother.’ How many older brothers does he have?”

Again, Odion shook his head.

“Just you. You’re all he’s got. And he’s never once cared if there’s blood to back that up.”

Odion’s eyes stung; he looked away.

“You both could take some lessons from him.”

The silence returned. An intercom message came and went, calling for duelists and audience alike to gather.

“If Mokuba Kaiba can break the rod’s connection,” Ishizu finally said, “even for a few moments, it would give Marik his opportunity.” She looked at Odion. “Seeing you and Anzu would give him his motivation. I believe under such an arrangement, Marik could fight his way back.”

“You too,” Ms. Mazaki said.

Ishizu shook her head. “There is no positive motivation seeing me could provide.”

“I don’t care. If he sees you and wants to come back just to punch you in the face, he deserves that chance. That’s another part of being family. You stick it out, even if it sucks. You learn to apologize, and you learn to forgive. If my stupid brothers and I can figure it out, you and your stupid brothers can figure it out, too.”

Despite himself, Odion smiled, because it was now obvious exactly how Anzu Mazaki had broken through Marik’s defenses.

Ishizu finally relented with a small nod.

“Well, good.” Ms. Mazaki adjusted the bottom hem of her shirt, squared her shoulders. “Now that we have a plan, I’ll talk to Mokuba. Agreed?”

Odion almost said, _“Yes, master.”_ He cleared his throat and tried again: “Yes, Ms. Mazaki.”

“Ugh, that’s way too formal. Just Anzu, thanks.”

If Odion didn’t know better, he’d say he’d gained two friends in a single day. Maybe if his luck held out, he could have his brother back by the end of the day as well.

Experience told him not to hope. Anzu’s bright smile told him experience wasn’t everything.

So he chose to hope anyway.

++++++++++

Yori wasn’t sure where she’d hoped to end up with her little bracelet trick; she’d simply thought that if the bracelet could allow her to see spirits, it could also allow her to _be_ one—to leave her body behind and go somewhere else.

She was somewhere else, all right. The darkness was gone, as was the beast, but though she’d hoped to see Yami, he was nowhere to be found. And neither was any other familiar face, though there were plenty of faces around.

She stood in what seemed to be a garden. Stone walls shaded the courtyard edges from the sun, and vines flowered in the shade. The air was heavy with the green scent of life. And everywhere, people enjoyed it, reclining in sun and shade, basking in the pool of water at the courtyard’s center. Each time she caught someone’s eyes, they smiled and nodded, like there was nothing strange about her at all even though she couldn’t have been more out of place. Everyone was dressed in white and gold, in robes and wraps. And there she was in her black Battle City T-shirt and ocean-starched blue jeans.

“Where am I?” she finally asked because it wasn’t like she was going to figure it out on her own.

The woman she’d addressed smiled and lifted a hand. “Go to the roof. He’ll speak with you there.”

“Who’s ‘he’? A god? An alien?”

But the woman turned away, moved to the pool.

Alright, the roof. Why not.

Yori crossed the courtyard to the looming stone house behind it. It was blocky in design, decorated with pillars and beveled edges. She pushed aside a curtain of woven reeds and entered the cool, dark interior. There were people inside, though not nearly as many as had been in the courtyard. A large, open room stood at the center of the house, painted a friendly yellow, and at the edge of it, a set of stairs led up.

The stairs took her to the roof, and she squinted against the sun as she emerged. Other houses and other courtyards filled the surrounding area, and in the distance, she could see the houses shrink and diminish to simple mud architecture that crumbled at the edges and testified of a much less elegant life than the one lived by the people in the dwelling below her.

There was only one other person on the roof. Yori hardly noticed him at first. He sat on a low stool beneath a reed canopy, staring out at the desert. He wore a white robe and gold armbands, and his head was bare except for a line of simple black tattoos across his forehead, like calligraphy strokes that never formed letters but were elegant nonetheless.

When he looked at her, his blue eyes were startlingly familiar, and in his features, she recognized someone else.

“Shadi?” No, it wasn’t Shadi. It had to be—

“You look well, Yaara.” The man smiled. “It’s been a while.”

Shadi’s father.


	27. Strategy

“It’s eerie, isn’t it?” Mokuba said.

Seto wouldn’t call it that. As he stared up at the looming Duel Tower and breathed in deep the smell of ocean salt and metal, he _almost_ smiled.

“It’s triumphant,” he said.

Alcatraz Island (named after the US prison island because for all his skills at business, Gozaburo Kaiba possessed no imagination) had once been home to KaibaCorp’s main weapons base. It had been Gozaburo’s pride and joy, the beating heart of everything he’d spent a lifetime building.

So of course, after seizing the company, Seto had ordered the demolition of every structure on the entire island. He’d torn Gozaburo’s favorite toys down to broken rebar and gutted foundations, and in doing so, he’d sent a very clear message about his thoughts on his father’s _pride._

“Mr. Kaiba.” Roland caught his attention, and though the man’s tone was normal, his deep frown made Seto tense. “I’ve just finished speaking with the station. They’re adamant they can’t air the broadcast today.”

Seto scowled. “We made this agreement—”

“It’s Domino City, sir. Apparently there have been some . . . attacks.”

That certainly wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.

“What?” Mokuba gasped. “From who?”

Even with his eyes hidden by his sunglasses, Roland looked uneasy. “I’m afraid I can’t get a clear answer. They say it’s . . . monsters.”

Seto snorted. “I leave the city for one day, and it loses its mind.”

“I’ll continue investigating, sir. Would you like to postpone the finals until we can get the broadcast sorted out?”

Though Seto hated to admit it, after the previous night’s madness, maybe there was some serendipity in the cancellation.

“The finals will continue as scheduled,” he said.

As if summoned by the announcement, Yuugi appeared on the path, approaching the Duel Tower.

“I’ll head to the audience side,” Mokuba said, kicking a bit of chipped concrete off the path.

At a look from Seto, Roland said, “I’ll accompany you.”

Mokuba looked ready to protest, so Seto ruffled his hair. It was instinctive, unexpected even for him. And apparently it was as good as saying please (something Seto had never been skilled at), because Mokuba grinned.

“I’ll be cheering for you,” he said.

Seto nodded, and the two of them headed around the side of the looming tower.

Yuugi reached the entrance, and he and Seto stood in silence. It was a bit surprising; normally, Yuugi was all-too-eager with his annoyingly friendly greetings. He was also normally surrounded by a herd of eager friends to match, so perhaps that was the difference.

“When I beat you,” Seto said, “your god card will be mine.”

He expected _some_ kind of response. Yuugi was, at times, unpredictable in his reactions—sometimes noncommittal, sometimes fierce. But he always reacted.

And yet it was like he hadn’t even heard.

Seto scowled and looked away, and the silence continued until the next finalist arrived.

Marik.

“Well, well, well,” the Egyptian purred. “Look at all of us ancient souls in one place. It’s a regular carnival.”

In unison, Seto and Yuugi shot him withering looks that did nothing to deter him.

“The pharaoh, his high priest, and his kindling. We could form a band. There’s enough people in me for a whole choir of backup singers.”

“Your god card.” Seto narrowed his eyes. “I know its weakness.”

“Do you now?” Marik cackled, drumming his fingernails on the orb of the rod sticking through his belt. “But how could you know Ra’s _weakness,_ priest, unless you read its abilities?”

Yuugi shot him a piercing look, and Seto’s glower grew more pronounced than ever.

Marik produced Ra from his deck pouch, brandishing easily the card he’d been so reluctant to display when qualifying for the finals. Seto didn’t want to look, but his eyes were too quick, and his mind was too sharp.

The card’s text was in a foreign script, just as Mokuba had said. It wasn’t quite hieroglyphs and it wasn’t quite not.

And yet . . .

Seto knew every word.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marik gestured to the card’s script. “Pegasus had to copy the text directly from a vision, no idea what it said. Poor modern fellow doesn’t read Egyptian. These are, of course, no ordinary hieroglyphs. This is hieratic text—used by the priests and palace scribes. Lucky for me, this tombkeeper mind learned it well. I was never given a privileged education in the past like you were.”

His smile spread wide enough to crack his face. He wiggled the card back and forth.

“Well, _High Priest Seth?_ Does it jog your memory?”

“Spout all the nonsense you want,” Seto said calmly. “Mind games won’t win you this tournament.”

But his heart had gone cold.

So had his hands.

“It’s pointless to deny, Kaiba.”

Funny that Yuugi would choose _now_ to speak.

Seto glared at him, but Yuugi only gave him something of a resigned look. “We can’t hide from ourselves.”

“Wise words.” Marik slid Ra into his deck once more, his eyes bulging above his smile. “The wisdom to lead a country, one might say.”

“Ridiculous,” Seto muttered. He clenched his fists at his side and welcomed the distraction of the fourth finalist approaching.

Mai Valentine gave a French greeting and took up a position next to Yuugi. “Beautiful island you have here, Monsieur Kaiba. A picture of paradise.”

The barb was welcome, too.

Seto smirked. “You’ve never heard of a metaphor, _Ms. Valentine?_ A champion rises from the ashes.”

“Then I shall be a phoenix.”

And though Seto didn’t care one ounce for the blonde finalist in his tournament, in that moment, she was the best person on the island. At least she was sane—just a duelist intent on winning a dueling tournament. No Egyptian nonsense included.

The doors to the Duel Tower slid open, and Fuguta bowed from the entrance.

“Welcome, duelists, to the Battle City Finals!”

Seto was already through the doors.

“Stand in the middle, if you will,” Fuguta continued, “and I’ll explain the Qualifier.”

When Seto had designed his tournament to have ten finalists, he’d been aware of the problem such an arrangement would pose in moving from the semi-finals to the finals. An elimination duel to narrow five down to four was both exciting and messy, and in order to avoid any bias on his part (the chance he would subconsciously design the contest to cater to his strengths), he’d had no hand in devising the qualifying match.

As with all matters of highest importance he couldn’t handle personally, he’d left it to Roland.

Yuugi, Mai, and Marik joined him in the center of the floor. The room was circular in design, made of undecorated gray metal, with a low ceiling and five doors besides the entrance, all identical save for the numerical identifier above each.

“This duel shall be unlike any other.” Fuguta stepped away from the entrance, and the doors began to close.

Just then, a voice shouted, “Hey, hold the elevator, would ya?!”

Seto felt a headache gather behind his eyes.

Fuguta turned quickly and held a button while Wheeler slid through the entrance with a stupid grin. The doors closed behind him.

“Can’t start without your best finalist!” he said.

“Give me one reason,” Seto growled, “I shouldn’t disqualify you for missing the deadline.”

“’Cause if I have to, I’ll climb the outside of this here tower and fight anyway.”

Somehow, Seto didn’t doubt it. His headache doubled.

“Take your place and shut up.”

Wheeler hurried to the center, and Fuguta continued as if there had been no interruption.

“With five finalists, a normal bracket elimination is impossible. The purpose of the Qualifier, then, is two-fold. First, it will narrow the finalists from five to four. Second, it will decide the matchups for the next two duels leading to the grand finale. Rather than being decided by random lottery, you shall have the opportunity in this duel to _arrange_ who you will battle in the finals. But be warned—too much focus on arranging your opponent and you risk becoming the eliminated finalist. This is a duel of strategy, one which decides everything to come.”

“Way to make us sweat!” Wheeler interjected.

Had Seto carried a knife on his person at all times as Yori did, sharing a room with Wheeler would have been a very dangerous thing.

“In this duel,” Fuguta went on, “all players shall begin with 4000 lifepoints, as usual. However, the first two duelists to lose all lifepoints shall be the first two participants in the finals. The next two players at zero shall comprise the second duel of the finals. The last-standing duelist in the Qualifier shall be the one eliminated.”

Trust Roland to turn everything on its head. In order to win, Seto would have to lose. Just the thought of seeing his lifepoints hit zero put a sour taste in his mouth.

Wheeler raised his hand like a kindergartner.

Seto closed his eyes, as if blinding himself to the stupid could somehow ease it.

“Uh . . . yes?” Fuguta said.

“Question. So if I lose first, I duel whoever loses second?”

“That is correct.”

“Question.”

He was _still going._ Seto clenched his jaw so hard, he was certain he pressed his teeth an inch deeper into his skull.

“How do we know whose turn it is?”

“I was just about to explain turn order, sir.”

“Oh, gotcha. Keep goin’, then.”

“Wheeler . . .” Seto opened his eyes, leveling a Kaiba Glare at the mutt. “If I had a dollar for every time you damaged my IQ by association, I could buy another Blue-Eyes.”

Wheeler glared back. “How ’bout you buy a better island? One that ain’t got steel for palm trees.”

“I’m glad you asked about losing first, since that’s what you always do.”

“I qualified _third,_ Rich-boy. Third. What number were you again? Or did you forget when Ryou scared the pants off you with his shadow game?”

Seto could have killed him.

“Children,” Mai said, raising her eyebrows, “may we perhaps continue with the adult tournament?”

“Don’t stop now.” Marik laughed. “I think we may be close to a murder. I do love a good murder.”

“The, uh, the order of attack”—Fuguta raised his voice—“shall be determined by a sacrificial monster card. You may choose any card you like, and order of play will be conducted from highest attack points to lowest, but whatever card you choose must be removed from play for the duration of the duel. You will reveal this card when I ask you to do so.”

A gamble. Sacrificing a strong card would guarantee an advantage in turns but could handicap a strategy. Lucky for Seto, he had an abundance of strong monsters. The opening turn would be his. The only question, then, was how to arrange the finals.

Wheeler was the weakest duelist. A coward might arrange a match with him. Seto was no coward; the only arrangement he wanted for Wheeler was elimination.

Mai had shown herself in the semi-finals to be a fierce competitor with a watertight deck arrangement. She would be no pushover in a match, and under any normal circumstances, Seto would have considered a duel with her a worthy one. However, among the current options, she meant nothing.

Then there was Yuugi. Seto had waited months for their rematch, looked forward to it in every step of tournament creation. The thought of missing his opportunity now was like peeling out a rib.

But he would have to count on Yuugi to beat Mai.

Because ever since the docks, since the anchor, there had been only one option of who Seto wanted to face.

Fuguta swept his arm around the room. “Now that the Qualifier rules have been outlined in full, please proceed to one of the five doors.”

“Does it matter which—”

“If the door mattered, Wheeler, he would have told you.” Seto was already halfway to the closest door, and as he reached it, the gray metal slid aside.

“I’m gonna take door three, Rich-boy. Like how I _qualified third.”_

With his middle finger, Seto pointed to the number above his own door.

It was door three.

The hiss of the closing door wasn’t enough to hide Wheeler’s exclamation of rage, and that, at least, was satisfying.

++++++++++

As the door closed behind him, all Yami could feel was numb. He was aware of how unfocused he was, aware of how dangerous such a mindset would be to any match, and yet no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to ground himself.

He worried about Yori, about whatever torture she was enduring in the shadows.

He worried about Yuugi, about what a god could possibly want with the boy that would keep him absent this long.

And he worried about facing the finals alone. From the moment the puzzle had been solved, Yami had never been truly alone. He’d taken that for granted. Yuugi had pulled him back from so many edges, first in Duelist Kingdom and then in Battle City. The anger in his heart, the shadows that called for his command—there were so many edges. Without his best friend, would he lose himself?

Without Yuugi, could he accomplish anything at all?

He sighed and ran a hand over his face; his fingers were cold.

Under normal circumstances, the Qualifier would be a challenge. Unfocused as he was, it felt nearly impossible. It was one thing to lower an opponent’s lifepoints to zero, another to lower his own. Arranging both events simultaneously was a tall order, especially with the other opponents to consider. If he and Marik simply attacked each other, things would work out, but he was sure Marik had no intention of making things easy for him. The Egyptian would probably go after anyone _but_ Yami, calling out taunts and jests all the while. He would be the most unpredictable player on the field, no goal but to create chaos.

Kaiba always conducted an aggressive offense. It was doubtful he even possessed cards to lower his own lifepoints, which would have put him at highest risk for elimination were it not for Joey and Marik on the field. Marik would attack him to get at Yami. Joey would attack him out of malice. Either way, Kaiba’s lifepoints would drop. His goal would be to duel Yami; he’d said as much when they stood outside the Duel Tower. But he was a smart player, and he would be aware of his offensive strength and elimination risk, which meant he would adopt an attack pattern that arranged the first duel of the finals between two duelists of his choice and pitted him against Yami for the second—a strategy that would align his strengths with his goal. He had no respect for Joey, which meant he would try to arrange a duel between Marik and Mai first, leaving Joey to be the eliminated finalist.

Joey was an offensive player as well, and especially after the way Kaiba had taunted him moments earlier, he would be focused on dueling the CEO. He was prone to tunnel-vision, and it was likely he would channel all his focus into attacking Kaiba, forgetting about his own lifepoints in the process and putting himself at highest risk of elimination, just as Kaiba wanted.

Under normal circumstances, Yami would have done something to ensure his friend wasn’t eliminated. But as things stood, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the tournament, not even when he knew how much it meant to Joey and how hard the blond had fought in the preliminaries. It was safer for Joey to be as far from Marik as possible, and if that meant elimination, so be it.

Mai was a wild card. She was a smart player, a strategist, neither offensive nor defensively inclined except when it suited her needs. However the field stood, she would play it to her advantage, especially if she wanted to pit two players against each other in order to clear them from her path. Yami had no indication of her emotional preference, so he could only infer she would take the smartest path forward, which would be to pit the two most dangerous opponents against each other, guaranteeing the removal of one without any hazard to herself. Since Yami had defeated her in the Duelist Kingdom semi-finals, he would be one of those duelists. If she saw Marik as the other, she might swing things in his favor. If she saw Joey or Kaiba as a higher threat, she might disrupt everything.

There was simply too much uncertainty, too much chance that if Yami attacked too hard, Marik would drop to zero, but Seto or Joey or Mai would immediately follow. And Yami couldn’t let Marik face anyone else, couldn’t risk another person falling victim to the shadows. He also couldn’t play too defensively and risk elimination himself.

Too many variables.

Too much at stake.

The room he’d entered was small and dimly lit. The only object in it was a vehicle of some sort, a cart with high railings fastened to a track in the wall. The front of the cart bore the same reflective pane he’d come to associate with the Duel Disk’s holoimagers, and as if he were on autopilot, Yami turned his arm, flipped the switch on his Duel Disk that connected it to a local system. A series of green lights blinked on the cart, and its holoimager shimmered to life.

He reached for the hinged side railing, swung it open.

But he couldn’t get himself to step forward.

After Duelist Kingdom, Yuugi had opened up to his grandpa about the Millennium Puzzle. He’d asked about its discovery, its origin, and Sugoroku had outlined the final expedition of his career. A pair of graverobbers had infiltrated the project and managed to corner Sugoroku alone, forcing him at gunpoint to proceed past the point of safety into the one tomb no archaeologist had managed to safely excavate.

“Despite what movies would have you believe,” Sugoroku said, “booby traps and such are not a common feature of tombs, not even the tombs of pharaohs. Even if a trap had once been set, you give it a few thousand years, and the mechanisms no longer work. But not this tomb.”

Not only was the tomb full of traps, but the traps were enchanted. Sugoroku said there was no other explanation for it. The graverobbers were intent on reaching the center of the tomb, which was rumored to hold the world’s most valuable treasure, and both of them sacrificed their lives to the attempt—one to the sword of a moving statue, one to a massive red dragon that rose from the stone to burn him alive.

“I don’t know how I survived.” Sugoroku’s voice and hands trembled even in the retelling. “When I reached the center, there was an inscription that said only a worthy heart could claim the key to past and future. I don’t know what’s considered worthy. All I know is every time I tried to turn back, that awful dragon opened its mouth to roast me, too. It wouldn’t let me pass until I picked up the puzzle’s box. Then it just vanished.”

Yuugi had absorbed the whole story with wide eyes. He looked almost guilty as he said, “You should have been the one to solve the puzzle.”

“I tried.” Sugoroku shook his head. “Twenty years I tried. Couldn’t even put a dent in the thing. And every time you saw that gold box growing up, your eyes got so wide and excited. Eventually, I had to accept it was meant for you.”

“Guess it was.” Yuugi had laughed, and he’d left things at that, but Yami had felt his doubts, felt his concern that he was “no one special.” That perhaps everything had been a big mistake.

Later that evening, Yami had gathered his courage to address the boy, to say simply, “It’s no mistake.”

Defeating Pegasus had made them partners, but it was that short conversation that had made them friends.

Had Yuugi been with him in the current moment, facing the Qualifier, Yami may have admitted that it was his turn to feel like there had been a big mistake, that he was no one special, that the more time he spent in the world, the more he was convinced he couldn’t save it or rule it or anything else. And he didn’t want to.

All he wanted was to save one girl.

Perhaps Yuugi would have told him that was okay. More likely, he would have said something wise and unexpected, something that made Yami consider the whole world in a new light. Such was the boy’s way.

Regardless, he would never know. And he could save neither Yori nor the world by remaining paralyzed.

So even though he wasn’t ready, he stepped into the cart and latched the railing.


	28. Walking Forward

“I’m right here.” It was a comfort to no one else, and it was barely a comfort to Yuugi, but every little while, he repeated it anyway. Like saying it aloud could be the spell to keep him from disappearing, from passing on to somewhere worse, from leaving his friends behind.

He’d seen Yami use the necklace, but there was no way of telling what it had shown him. Certainly not Yuugi’s death—there would have been a stronger reaction for that. Part of him wished he could be mad that his friend hadn’t tried it again or reasoned out the truth, but the rational rest of him knew there was no cause for him to ever suspect it, not when their mental bond was still present, if unfunctioning; not when Yuugi’s body was nowhere to be found; and not when the other god cards had never done more than knock a player unconscious. Even Odion was awake and about now, a little dehydrated but definitely alive.

Yori would have seen him, surely. If she’d been awake. If she’d been okay. But then again, she’d never mentioned seeing dead people wandering around at random, so maybe the bracelet was as fickle as the rest of the items. As fickle as the gods.

“If I died while wearing the puzzle, do I just stay a spirit forever? Is that what happened to Yami?” Yuugi looked up, but all he saw was ceiling. Ra spoke when he wanted to speak, not when Yuugi prodded him to.

So Yuugi just watched. He watched Joey and Duke start to bridge old wounds with a card; he watched Tristan give advice on girls; he watched Anzu chide the Ishtars in her best mama-bear voice. He watched his friends move forward with no idea he was gone. He watched the finalists gather, and he watched Fuguta explain the Qualifier, and when Yami froze at the threshold of the match, he watched, because he could do nothing else.

“You can do it, partner,” he whispered, even though he would never be heard again. “You’re stronger than anyone.”

In the end, Yami moved forward, and it had nothing to do with Yuugi’s encouragement. It had nothing to do with Yuugi at all.

From the moment he’d solved the puzzle and invited a flood of millennium chaos into his life, Yuugi had insisted he was no one special. Just a kid who liked games. The insecurities were real, and some days they roared so loudly he could hardly get out of bed, but he’d always found solace in the simple, stupid fact that in at least _one_ way, he was needed—someone had to carry the puzzle. From day one, he’d admired Yami’s strength and fierceness as much as he’d feared it, and after they’d become friends, he’d comforted himself with the idea that if he was helping in no other way, at least he could share his life and make it possible for Yami to have one as well.

But now he was dead.

And Yami was just fine.

So he really was no one special. No one useful. No one needed.

Anzu would have scolded him for the thought, but she couldn’t hear it. Even if he’d been able to tell her, she was busy worrying about Marik.

 _“Selfishness is easy,”_ his mother’s voice whispered in his memory, _“and it’s tempting. And it’s terrible.”_

 _Well, I’m dead anyway,_ Yuugi thought. _So who cares._

Ra’s voice eventually came again: //Are you ready to have your life back?//

And despite all his morbid thoughts, Yuugi said, “I’m fine here, thanks.”

Maybe that was selfishness in and of itself. Maybe he was tired of trying to be good and muddling his way through life when it seemed determined to beat him down at every turn. Maybe it was easier to be dead.

And yet.

Even if he was useless.

Even if it was selfish.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “The reason you need my permission. The puzzle of what limits a god.”

He’d given in to despair at the warehouse fire, and he’d regretted it. Thankfully, Yori had been there to save him.

This time, maybe he could save himself.

If he was going to solve the puzzle, he needed more pieces. Since the moment he’d discovered he could move at a thought, he’d been certain to keep his thoughts focused on—almost desperately clinging to—his friends. He’d been afraid to look farther, afraid at any moment he might reach some invisible limit and lose the only connection he had left—the faint mental link that bound him to Yami. But pushing his limits would give him information, and information would lead him to his answer.

 _Be brave,_ he told himself. It wasn’t one of his strengths, but it was one of Yami’s, and he’d had plenty of time to study.

The night before Battle City, he’d asked Yami if he was scared.

“No,” the spirit had answered. Then he’d frowned in sudden concern. “Should I be?”

“I mean, maybe?” Yuugi had given a nervous laugh, one that cracked his voice. “Yori said the Ghoul leader controls minds. What if he gets to us and makes us do something . . . awful?”

Yami was silent for a while before he finally said, “I’ve never found it helpful to worry about everything an opponent _might_ do. If I were to agonize over ten potential strategies ahead of time, I would have ten opportunities to feel fear about overcoming them. If I take things as they come in the moment, I have only one reality to concern myself with and one opportunity for fear.”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it.” Somehow, Yuugi was convinced he could find ten opportunities for fear in only one reality.

As if he’d guessed the heart of the issue, Yami gripped his shoulder and smiled. “There’s no secret to bravery, partner. It’s just walking forward.”

 _Bravery is just walking forward,_ Yuugi reminded himself. _Walk forward, Yuugi. Walk forward._

He closed his eyes and thought of his grandpa.

When he opened them, he saw the crowded shelves and postered walls of the game shop.

And at the back of his mind, he still felt the mental bond. He’d gone all the way back to Domino, and he hadn’t lost anything.

Behind the counter, Grandpa tied on his apron, just as he did every morning before opening. He was whistling a children’s song about sakura festivals, one that Yuugi’s mother used to sing at bedtime, and before Yuugi knew it, he was humming along.

_Yozakura, see the stars fall,_

_Catch a petal,_

_Catch a petal,_

_Keep your pocket-star._

“I’m home, Grandpa,” Yuugi said aloud, trying to ignore the burning in his eyes. Even if he got no response, the simple familiarity brought a smile to the boy’s face.

Until a beetle the size of a car ripped the front door off its hinges.

++++++++++

Yori had long since given up labelling things as “impossible.” It seemed the wisest choice for her chaotic life. So she looked at Shadi’s father calmly and asked, “Am I in the past?”

After all, if Ishizu’s necklace could see the future, there was no reason the bracelet couldn’t throw her in the past.

Shada gestured to another stool. He didn’t speak again until she’d seated herself beneath the canopy. Although the shade felt cooler than the sun, the sun hadn’t burned like normal. It had been warm without discomfort, just as the shade was cool without the same. Before he said it, she knew it couldn’t possibly be the real world.

“This is not your past. It is the world of spirits.”

“Like . . . the underworld? The afterlife?” Yori looked out at the distant, crumbling houses once more.

“Is it not as you expected?”

She stretched her legs out and crossed her ankles, shrugging. “I didn’t expect anything.”

“Because you do not like to think of what lies after death. There are a great many things you do not like to think of.”

“So it’s true.” She swallowed. “I was alive in Egypt 3,000 years ago. I knew you and Shadi and . . . Yami.”

“You knew it was truth the moment my son told you.”

“Spying on me.” Yori gave a tight smile. “Nothing better to do in the afterlife?”

His own smile was relaxed. “I have time to do all I wish. Your time, however, is running out.”

She knew the truth of that, too, because even while she sat with him in the spirit world, she could feel the beast prowling just beyond her senses, like a cold window at the edge of a room reminding cozy occupants of an outside winter.

“I lost a shadow game,” she said.

“I’m aware. But defeat is not the end unless we choose it to be.” Shada rose. “You sought me for help to rise again, and help I will provide.”

She wanted to say she hadn’t sought him out at all, that she’d just reached out with the bracelet without a clue where she was going, but it felt pointless to argue, and seeing him felt so natural that maybe he was right.

“I’m not your daughter, am I?” The question brought a familiar ache to her chest. “I know most people don’t have to ask.”

His expression took on a shade of pity. “I never knew your parents, not even their names. The circumstances of your birth were not—”

“Doesn’t matter.” She slapped her hands down on her knees and then rose to stand beside him. “How do I force out the monster in my mind?”

“You have always done that,” he said. “Run from the unknown devils to those of a familiar shape. With enough determination, you stay steps ahead of your own mind and the shadows within it. But if you wish to survive, you can do so no more.”

Before Yori could ask what he meant, the world of sand and sun disappeared into black like a light going out.

She was back in the game with Marik. He leered at her from across the field, only holographic monsters between them, useless as air—and the air was cold, so cold, stealing her breath, scraping her throat. Images of Haku played on every side, leering at her along with Marik, the two of them like circling wolves closing in on a limping doe. Yori tried to turn, tried to back away, but she only drew cards and played cards and made empty quips to fill the silence, to drown what lurked beneath it. The game played out just as it had in reality. She was powerless to change it.

And when Marik drew Ra, she saw her loss reflected in his eyes along with the glee.

Then the darkness fled, and she was back in the spirit world.

She ducked away from Shada, gasping. She braced her trembling hands on the waist-high wall that fenced in the rooftop. The sun wasn’t hot enough to burn the memory out. The stone wasn’t cold enough to freeze her tremors.

“The shadows fractured your mind with fear,” Shada said. “Even if not shown in images during the game, every demon you’ve ever tried to bury was brought to the surface. A lifetime of unresolved terror quickly stacks into a crushing mountain.”

“You’re telling me to ‘face my fears’?” Yori shook her head. “No thanks. Just tell me how to fight the monster.”

“This _is_ how.” Shada moved to stand beside her, though she didn’t look at him. “The weakness the shadows have found in your heart is your inability to contend with fear.”

She dug her fingertips into the stone, pressed her nail tips white. In her mind, she heard the echo of Yami’s voice from her first shadow game. _“The weakness the shadows have found in your heart . . .”_

Shada pressed on. “Your opponent recognized his fears. He made no attempt to hide; he accepted, which allowed him to be triumphant. Even in plain sight, you attempted to run, attempted to hide. You looked nothing in the eyes, playing the foolish child’s game of ‘If I can’t see you, you can’t see me,’ which only left you fighting blind.”

Yori’s stomach shrank back against her spine. Even so, she kept her voice confident and scathing, just as she had during the game. “Wow, great kid gloves. Glad I came to you for comfort.”

“You did not come to me for comfort. You came to me for help, and help requires honesty.”

She was well aware she hid from her fears. But it wasn’t a weakness; it was a survival necessity. She had learned quickly in life that if she allowed herself to be afraid, she’d become paralyzed. Scared kids couldn’t survive without parents and guardians. Scared kids couldn’t steal, couldn’t fight, couldn’t lie, couldn’t last.

“Fearless is the only path I know,” she said.

“You have never stepped foot on a fearless path,” Shada argued. “A pot is not waterless because it contains nothing; it is waterless because the water which once filled it has been emptied. So, too, a fearless path is one in which fear has been faced and emptied. It is not the sideways trail darted down to avoid what is lurking on the main path.”

Yori wished she were anywhere else, recognizing even as she did so that she was proving his point exactly.

“This is how I survive,” she said, voice cracking. “If I ever stopped to look in the mirror, I’d never move again.”

He gripped her shoulder gently. His blue eyes were soft, as Shadi’s had been on the cold October day she’d met him.

“I don’t believe that,” he said. “I believe you will not only move again, but you will move fearlessly, capable of things never previously imagined.”

She could hope he was right, but either way, it didn’t matter. In the consequences of a shadow game, there were only two options: survive or surrender. She had no intention of losing her mind to the shadows, which meant she had to face and overcome her fears, and she had to do so before the beast swallowed her completely.

“Teach me,” she said.

++++++++++

While Ishizu chose to stay with Odion, Anzu made her way to the Duel Tower. She jogged down the blimp’s lowered entryway stairs, and the moment her platform sandals hit the dirt, it was like returning home. There was just something about solid ground, the reliability of it, the reality in it. Kaiba’s island looked like a city after an airstrike, and in all honesty, her insides felt much the same, but the solid ground made her feel like she could go forward anyway.

Two paths had been cleared in the rubble, both leading to the single tower that loomed at the center of the island. Anzu followed the one marked for “spectating,” and it led her past piles of concrete rubble and twisted metal to a group of people already gathered at a tower entrance.

“Anzu!” Serenity shouted, waving before she even reached the group. The girl’s smile was as bright as ever. Duke stood next to her, looking a bit miffed that she’d pulled her hand out of his in order to wave. But her other hand was occupied—holding what looked like a white banner.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” Ryou said. Where Serenity’s smile was chipper, his looked a bit relieved, possibly because he’d been third wheel to a couple until Anzu had arrived.

“I was . . .” Anzu blushed. She would have loved to run Marik’s situation by Ryou in private; she had a feeling he would be the most understanding of her friends. But they weren’t in private. So she pointed at Serenity’s banner instead. “Is that for Joey?”

“It is!”

The girl grabbed either edge of the banner and spread it wide, displaying bold red text, which read _“Joey Wheeler, Fighting!”_

“Krisalyn helped me make it this morning,” she said, grinning. “She found the fabric and the markers and everything. I know it’s kind of a patch job, but I hope he likes it.”

“He’ll love it.” There was no question.

“Tristan’s not with you?” Ryou stood on tiptoe and peered down the path.

Anzu glanced over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen him all morning. Have you?”

“Well, he was at breakfast, but I left first.”

“He’ll be here,” she said confidently. He’d probably just stopped for an insulin shot.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t so sure about Mokuba. She’d expected him to be at the tower to cheer his brother on, but maybe he had his own viewing spot. After all, it was his brother’s tournament _and_ island.

“Has anyone checked on Yori?” Duke asked.

Anzu shifted uncomfortably.

“I haven’t,” Ryou said. “But Yuugi was with her all night, and when I spoke to him, he said there’s been no change.”

Duke frowned, and Serenity looked crestfallen at the news.

“Hey, but Odion’s awake!” Anzu said. As she’d hoped, everyone perked up a bit. “I visited him right before I came.”

“Oh, good!” Serenity said. “I’m sure Yori will wake up soon, too!”

Anzu could only share that hope, along with so many others.

The door to the Duel Tower suddenly swung open, and a KaibaCorp guard ushered them inside with the greeting, “Welcome to the Battle City finals!”

They all hesitated, but Tristan chose that moment to come tearing up the path, so it wasn’t much of a hesitation.

“You made it, mate!” Ryou said.

Whatever Tristan’s response might have been, it was lost as he doubled over and wheezed for breath.

Anzu rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure you didn’t have to run. It’s not like they’re locking people out.”

“How am I . . . supposed . . . to know!” he panted.

As they all made their way into the tower, Anzu saw someone else already waiting, and her heart leapt into her throat.

“Mokuba!” she burst out.

The dark-haired boy blinked. He exchanged a glance with the KaibaCorp guard at his side. “Yes?”

“I’m just glad to see you.” Everyone gave her a weird look for that, and she blushed again.

“Um . . . okay.” He laughed a little awkwardly. “Nice to see you too, Anzu.”

Tristan had apparently recovered from his near-death track experience, and he leaned an elbow on Anzu’s shoulder, whispering, “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” she hissed back. “I just—”

“If all spectators will please proceed this way”—the first guard gestured to a waiting elevator—“I’ve received word that we are ready to begin.”

Mokuba and his bodyguard stepped in first, followed by Duke and Serenity. Anzu slid in next to Ryou, and as the elevator doors closed, she snuck a glance at the youngest Kaiba brother, wondering how she was ever going to manage a private conversation with him in the middle of the tournament.

For Marik’s sake, she would just have to figure something out.


	29. The Qualifier Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, everyone. Much love.

Joey was still seething as he tried to figure out how to work the stupid little cart thing waiting behind his door (door number _one_ , which made it better than Kaiba’s), and the emotion did him no favors.

He finally got the railing latched behind him, and as he did, a robotic voice said, “Please hold tight. Cart rising.”

He grabbed the railings for dear life, expecting to be launched through the ceiling like a cannonball, but then the cart just moseyed its way up the wall like an elevator. What had been the ceiling for him became a floor, and his cart stopped about six feet up from it, next to a marking on the wall that read 4000.

The first thing he saw was his sister, waiting in the center of the floor. She waved as their eyes locked, and he grinned. The other spectators stood around her, and a few of them shouted encouragement at the finalists—most noticeably the littlest Kaiba, who received no acknowledgement from his brother for his efforts. Freaking Kaiba.

Krisalyn wasn’t among the spectators. There was no reason for her to be—she probably had duties and stuff. After all, the tournament wasn’t a vacation for her; it was work.

But still. He’d hoped. And his stomach fell a little at the disappointment.

The four other finalists were each in their own carts at the same level as Joey, and a glance up the tower told him each of their tracks went all the way to the top, marked along the way by lifepoint readings—3500, 3000, 2500, and so on. Zero would be the top. Joey’s brain felt all backwards trying to think of losing as winning, but he hadn’t come this far to fall behind now.

“Finalists!” Fuguta shouted. He’d joined the spectators in the center area of the floor. “Please prepare the monster card that will determine your turn order. Remember these cards cannot subsequently be used in the duel.”

Oh, right. Joey fumbled with his deck, which he’d already snapped into his Duel Disk.

“Finalists, are you ready?”

“One sec!” Joey called out, almost dropping a stack of cards.

“What a surprise,” Kaiba drawled.

“Stuff it, Rich-boy.”

He finally snatched Swordsman of Landstar [500/1200] and brandished it at the floor below.

“Mr. Wheeler shows first.” Fuguta raised a hand. “500 attack.”

Mai showed next with 1600. Then the pharaoh with 1300. Marik chose a card with 1800.

And freaking Kaiba tossed away a 3300-attack card like it was nothing.

“The turn order will proceed as follows: Mr. Kaiba, Mr. Ishtar, Ms. Valentine, Mr. Mutou, and Mr. Wheeler.”

“How’s last place, Wheeler?” Kaiba sneered. “Does it feel like home?”

“It’s strategetic, Rich-boy. Goin’ last gives me all the advantage.” It really wasn’t; Joey simply didn’t have enough high-point monsters to risk sacrificing one.

Kaiba snorted. “‘Strategetic.’ Did you even pass kindergarten on your own, or did Yuugi hold your hand through that, too?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It means you’re only here because Yuugi carries you through every duel like he’s been doing since Duelist Kingdom.”

Joey’s cheeks flushed with color. “Just ’cause he taught me don’t mean—”

“You would have drowned in that tournament without him, and you’d have drowned in this one twice as fast.”

Duelist Kingdom, sure. Joey hated to admit it, but it was true—he’d been a complete amateur, new to the game in every way, unable to even scrape forty cards together without Yuugi’s donations. During the tournament, Yuugi’s advice on and off the field had saved his hide at every turn. But Battle City he’d fought on his own. He’d won on his own.

“You’re just jealous ’cause Pegasus didn’t give you an invite to his fancy tourney.”

Kaiba’s return glare was withering. “Duelist Kingdom was a front for Pegasus Crawford’s sad attempt to overtake KaibaCorp through hostile force. Of _course_ he didn’t invite me. I was also in a coma when things started, if you’ll remember, which made the takeover possible to begin with. And yet, even in a vegetative state, I could have out-dueled you. Remind me—were _you_ invited, or did Yuugi have to severely handicap himself just to get you limping through the door?”

Joey’s ears burned twice as hot. Every duelist invited to Duelist Kingdom had started with two star-chips to wager on matches. It took ten to enter the castle, and it was true that Yuugi had immediately put himself at a disadvantage by giving Joey one so he could compete.

“Kaiba”—the pharaoh gave a withering glare of his own—“just duel.”

“Gee, I’d love to, but I can’t. Wheeler’s holding everyone up. Again.”

 _“You’re_ the one tossin’ insults, Rich-boy! I’m ready to go!”

“You don’t even realize what’s missing. Of course you don’t. Need Yuugi to coach you through it as usual?”

Joey’s heart sank. He glanced frantically around the cart. There were no instructions, no blinking lights, no emergency signals. His Duel Disk looked ready as ever, and he’d already reshuffled his deck while the others had presented their cards.

Then he noticed it—everyone else’s carts were all shimmery and glowing on the front. His wasn’t.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

Kaiba’s expression couldn’t have been more self-satisfied. “Go ahead. Ask Yuugi for help. You clearly need it.”

“Joey, it’s—”

“Hang on,” Joey interrupted the pharaoh, face flaming. “I got this.”

He most definitely did not. Joey searched the cart, but there were no buttons or switches, no cords, and once again, no instructions. Of course, Mai, Yami, and even Marik had seemed to have no problems figuring it out on their own.

“Unless you’d rather withdraw. Which’ll it be, Wheeler?”

Kaiba looked like he’d won a trophy. Marik looked like he had front-row seats to his favorite sports team. Yami just looked blank, which was perhaps the worst of all. Joey had thought he’d become a true duelist over the course of the tournament so far.

But he was still a burden.

“It’s a local network, Joey!”

The voice wasn’t Yami’s—it was Duke’s.

Joey glanced down just as Dice-boy mimed flipping a switch on the inside of his arm.

And Joey had never felt more like an idiot.

He turned his Duel Disk over, found the stupid switch, flipped it. His cart lit up with shimmer and glowy lights to match the others, and his Duel Disk flashed with the message _Duel Start._

Kaiba looked ready to make another dig, but Duke shouted first.

“Don’t let Kaiba get to you! The only reason he even has the company he’s so proud of is because Gozaburo did all the heavy lifting to build it. So who’s really being carried?”

Kaiba’s glare instantly switched targets. “Big words, Devlin. Speak to me again when you can sign checks for your own ‘company’ without Daddy’s approval.”

“Brutal.” Marik giggled to himself. “Now I see why the rod is the only item with a concealed blade.”

Joey wished he could have been glad for Duke’s help, but he was still smarting from needing it at all. He couldn’t even look at the pharaoh.

Kaiba drew his first hand and summoned Kaiser Sea Horse [1700/1650] in attack mode, playing two cards facedown with it. His beefy blue-and-purple sea creature snarled at the other players, and it seemed to be looking right at Joey when it hefted its spear.

“Since I can’t attack on the first round, that ends my turn.” Kaiba was _definitely_ looking right at Joey as he said, “Let’s see what pathetic defense you can scrounge up.”

Stupid rich, entitled, overbearing, egotrilectrical—

Joey looked at his cards. He still had one to draw in his first turn phase, but it wasn’t a good start; he not only had no strong monsters—he had no monsters at all. The worst opening hand possible.

He’d been so confident walking into the finals, and suddenly it was like the start of Battle City all over again. He could hear his dad’s sandpaper laugh and his mocking voice: _“Think you’re good enough, boy?”_

 _“One way to find out,”_ Joey had told him.

The danger with that, of course, was the finding out.

++++++++++

Once the duel began, Yami expected his duelist’s instincts to kick in, to ground him in the moment and calm his jittery mind. No matter what else was going on, he’d always been able to find calm on the dueling field. When nothing else made sense, a duel always did.

Yet as he watched Marik draw a card, watched the Egyptian smirk and summon Lord Poison [1500/1000] to the field, he was still thinking of all the variables and stakes and realizing he hadn’t even looked at his own hand of cards yet.

When he looked down, his fingers were trembling.

“And I’ll use my tribute summon to sacrifice Lord Poison to bring out Helpoemer [2000/1400],” Marik said. “In attack mode.”

His blue, moaning monster took shape on the field. It was hard to tell whether the creature was strapped to a thick cross or if it carried one as a shield on its back.

Marik ended his turn with a single facedown card, and he met Yami’s eyes from across the tower and winked.

Below the edge of the cart, out of sight, Yami flexed his empty hand.

Mai played Amazoness Fighter [1500/1300] in attack mode. The card had an effect that negated all battle damage to its owner for any fight it was involved in—a risky move in the one duel where the goal was to lose lifepoints, but maybe Mai wanted to get a feel for the other players’ motives before she fully committed.

Yami sure wished he knew what he wanted to do, especially since his turn was approaching with every second.

“I also play Graceful Charity,” Mai announced. In silence, she drew three cards, evaluated her hand, and discarded two.

“Turn end.”

In his chest, Yami’s heart thudded slowly, like it hoped to escape notice.

“My turn.” He hesitated, glancing at his hand again. He held Mystical Refpanel, Premature Burial, Seven Tools of the Bandit, Buster Blader, and Obnoxious Celtic Guard.

In dueling, each draw was significant. Every single card mattered. Out of the forty cards in a deck, a single match was lucky to see half. Even then, order mattered greatly—certain cards were almost unbeatable together and almost useless separated. Before a draw phase, Yami always knew exactly which card he wanted and which card would be second best, third best, and so on. He’d always known that part of believing in his deck was trusting that he would draw the cards he needed exactly when he needed them.

But he didn’t know what he needed.

He drew Magic Formula. After a deep breath, he slid it into his hand next to Premature Burial.

“What’s the matter, Pharaoh?” Marik cocked his head to the side, raised his eyebrows. “You seem _sluggish._ Weight of the world on your shoulders?”

“I play the Obnoxious Celtic Guard [1400/1200],” Yami said. His cloaked, elven warrior appeared on the field, hefting a sword and shield. “And I’ll add one card facedown.”

He slid Mystical Refpanel into the first of his magic-and-trap slots. The Obnoxious Celtic Guard couldn’t be destroyed in battle with a monster possessing 1900 attack points or higher, and Mystical Refpanel allowed the redirection of one spell card. Together, they should give him some control of the field, some flexibility in responding to whatever was to come.

At least, that was the hope. He didn’t dare look at his cards again only to realize a superior strategy had escaped his notice.

“Turn end,” he said tightly.

_“You take your strategies very seriously.”_

Yami winced at the echo of Yori’s voice in his mind. He could still see her as she’d been that day in the Domino arcade, her hair almost maroon under the dim lights, her smirk fierce as she countered his every move on the field.

 _“I never pull punches,”_ he’d said, matching her move for move, smirk for smirk.

 _“I like guys who go for the win.”_ Just as his heart had skipped a beat, she’d flipped Dante for him to see, his first glimpse of the dragon in person. _“I’ve got one right here.”_

She was witty and commanding, a formidable opponent and an even fiercer friend.

And she would never be herself again unless he could take Marik down.

“A’ight, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Joey’s voice broke through the fog, and Yami shook himself back to the game.

Joey summoned Gearfried the Iron Knight [1800/1600] in attack mode. The shining, black-armored knight readied himself on the field before Joey like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun.

“An’ goin’ last means I get to attack first.” Joey skewered Kaiba with a glare. “So I’m about to make sushi outta your sea horse, Kaiba!”

Yami knew it was a trap, but he said nothing. He’d recognized the look in Joey’s eyes immediately following Kaiba’s taunts, and he knew that shouting a warning now would be more damaging to Joey than letting him take the fall. They all had their own battles to face.

Not to mention, with his own mind struggling to stay in the game, it would be hypocrisy to think he could help someone else even if Joey would have welcomed the effort. 

Gearfried flashed forward, quick as wind, and swung one of his silver blades toward Kaiba’s monster.

But Kaiser Sea Horse vanished.

“So gullible, Wheeler.” Kaiba’s tone was cold. “Make yourself predictable, and anyone can use you.”

One of Kaiba’s facedown cards rose, revealing an hourglass with a monster in each half. It was a spell card, one Yami knew to be greatly coveted in the trading world. Yugi’s grandpa had been trying to acquire one for years.

“I activate Delayed Harvest,” Kaiba said. “If my tribute summon wasn’t expended on my last turn, I can tribute during my opponent’s turn once he declares an attack.”

There was only one card Kaiba would tribute for—especially since Kaiser Sea Horse counted as two tributes for a light-type monster.

And sure enough—

Blinding white light split the air where Kaiba’s monster had been, and as everyone shielded their eyes, the roar of a dragon vibrated the walls of the metal tower.

Blue-Eyes White Dragon [3000/2500]. Kaiba had known exactly what to draw for.

“Big deal,” Joey scowled, still squinting as the light settled around the white, hunkered dragon. “You coulda just summoned that on your turn. Way I see it, that spell card is trash.”

Yami grimaced. Joey had noticed a key detail—the spell card seemed to be a waste—but he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Kaiba was one of the top duelists in the world, and he knew the worth of every card. Which meant . . .

As if on cue, Joey’s knight slashed his blade against Blue-Eyes’ armored underbelly. The blade glanced off harmlessly, and the knight grunted while the dragon stared down at him as coldly as her master.

“Since you already declared it,” Kaiba said, “your attack follows through. But now that my monster is more powerful than yours, you take the difference as damage instead of me. That’s 1200 points of damage.”

Joey scowled. “Yeah, I know how attacks work, Rich-boy.”

“I can never be sure which parts of this game you actually grasp.”

Yami clenched his jaw. There was no way Kaiba wanted Joey to take damage, not in a game where zero lifepoints was the goal and the last-standing player was eliminated. Kaiba would want Joey to be that last-standing player. He would want to use Joey’s rage to lower his own lifepoints.

Kaiba’s second facedown card lurked on the field, and Yami had a good idea what it had to be.

Joey stared down at his lifepoint counter. He poked it. “Hey, why ain’t this thing goin’ down?”

While he was focused on his Duel Disk, Kaiba’s second card rose. It had the purple border of a trap card, and the illustration showed a grim reaper in a ring of fire.

Reaper’s Ritual, a card that bled its owner dry but offered intense power in return. It wasn’t Kaiba’s usual style; he’d adapted for the duel, just as any top duelist would.

“This trap can only be used if I have a single monster on the field and my opponent would take damage from something other than that monster’s attack. My opponent’s damage is transferred to my lifepoints instead, and the same amount of points feeds my monster’s attack power.”

Blue-Eyes gave a rumbling growl as her attack power rose from 3000 to 4200. At the same moment, Kaiba’s lifepoints dropped to 2800, and his cart glided up the wall, stopping just above the 3000-point marker. He was the first to rise, the undeniable lead in the current mess of a duel.

In short, Kaiba had pulled no punches. Despite the obstacles, he’d gone straight for the win.

And Yami was still paralyzed with indecision.

++++++++++

Wheeler finished out his pathetic turn with two facedown cards, blustering like everything had been a part of his strategy. Seto tuned him out before he finished, all his attention focused now on Marik.

He’d seized the lead just as he’d intended to. Now it was time to seal the deal. The current duel had too many opponents and too many variables, which meant the surest way forward was the quickest. While the others mulled in indecision, probing the field to determine enemy weaknesses and motivations, Seto would surge ahead and secure his desired results, leaving them scratching their heads and wondering how the rug had been pulled.

He would finish the duel in three turns. One had already gone according to plan. The next two would as well.

Seto narrowed his eyes on Marik, and he drew a card.

Ahead of him, his dragon shifted. She tilted her head, glancing back at him from the corner of a slanted blue eye. He smirked. His strategy rested solely on Blue-Eyes.

And Blue-Eyes never let him down.

He played another two cards facedown, emptying his hand down to a single card.

“Blue-Eyes.” She perked up at her name, and the beginnings of a roar rumbled in her chest. “Blast away Helpoemer.”

Marik had been watching Yuugi, but he turned at the attack. His field was empty of facedown cards, and his monster had no abilities that could stop the attack, so as Blue-Eyes roared, Helpoemer melted in a pillar of crackling white energy.

Marik’s lifepoints melted down to 1800. His cart rose above Seto’s, looming like a goal, a target.

“My monster has a special effect,” Marik purred, leaning against the railing of his cart to peer down. “Whenever it’s destroyed in battle, my opponent loses a random card each turn.”

Seto had been well aware. It was a cost he had to shoulder.

But as he moved his single card toward the graveyard, Marik swung once more toward Yuugi.

“We’re all opponents here, so toss a card, Pharaoh. The one on the far left should do nicely.”

Something in Seto’s stomach tightened each time Marik called Yuugi ‘pharaoh.’ It tightened even more when Yuugi went along with it.

But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted with nonsense. All that mattered was lowering his lifepoints to zero over the next two turns and dragging Marik down to follow him. After everything he’d experienced with Mokuba at the dock, he’d become an expert on tied losses. It was his trademark to never make a mistake and especially to never make a mistake twice. Marik had forged the path to his own failure by teaching Seto the exact skills he needed for this duel before he’d even known what it would entail.

Poetic justice was a beautiful thing.

“That ends my turn,” Seto said.

One turn left. He and Marik would be the first match of the finals.

And Marik would regret ever setting foot in Battle City.


	30. The Qualifier Part Two

Duel Monsters would always be Mai Valentine’s game of choice, but she spent most of her time manning poker and blackjack tables. Her work on the cruise liner had taught her valuable skills—ways to read and con people, how to spot a tell and how to hide one, when to hit and when to fold—but it had also weakened her in some ways.

Kaiba had charged into the qualifying match with cannons blazing. Mai had been too reserved. She had planned on giving herself a few turns to evaluate the field, realizing too late that Kaiba intended to end it all within that space of time. His first attack was telling—he wanted to face Marik. As did Yuugi. Joey wanted to face Kaiba. Marik had his eyes spread across the field but never in her direction.

No one wanted to face her. It wasn’t that her feelings were hurt over the knowledge, but she recognized that it put her at a severe disadvantage. In a game where preserving lifepoints meant death, no one would be aiming to lower hers. And her deck was not built for her to do it herself.

She’d entered Battle City hoping for surprises, hoping for a challenge. She’d certainly found one.

After Kaiba ended his turn, Marik played Drillago [1600/1100], a humanoid machine monster with spiral drills protruding from its every joint.

“My monster has a nasty little effect.” Marik licked his lips. “If my opponent has only face-up monsters with 1600 or more attack, Drillago can attack the player directly.”

Everyone on the field stiffened—everyone except Mai. Because Marik didn’t even know she existed in this fight.

“Who shall it be? Who. Shall. It. Be?” He swung his pointer finger back and forth like a pendulum across the field. “The nasty priest who destroyed my last monster? Or maybe His Majesty himself?” He pointed at Yuugi and smirked. “Congratulations, Pharaoh. You win a prize.”

Yuugi set his jaw, obviously bracing for an attack.

But Marik’s monster didn’t move. Instead, his facedown card rose, revealing a wooden artist’s doll with crooked limbs.

“Bait Doll.” Marik cackled. “It forces the activation of a trap and, if the timing is incorrect, destroys it. So let’s see your trap card.”

Yuugi’s facedown card flipped, revealing Mystical Refpanel. The card shattered.

“Too bad,” Marik purred. “Now . . . back to that attack.”

He narrowed his eyes on Kaiba.

But when his monster leapt forward, it leapt toward Joey. It landed on his cart and drove a drill-covered arm right through his chest. He flinched back in pain as his lifepoints dropped to 2400, and the monster retreated.

Joey’s cart rose, placing him between Kaiba and Marik.

“Bait and switch!” Marik’s face practically glowed with enjoyment. “Did I disappoint you, priest?”

Kaiba scowled and remained silent.

“Seems I didn’t quite have an effect. Well, you know what they say. If at first, you don’t succeed . . .”

He played the magic card Surprise Attack from Beyond, which allowed him a second battle phase using a monster he’d summoned that turn.

And for the first time, his eyes focused on Mai. He licked his lips.

“Have at the blonde girl,” he said.

Mai smirked.

But just as his monster leaped, Joey said, “Not so fast, tongue-face.”

He’d activated one of his facedown cards—Roulette Spider. A cartoon spider with a red arrow in place of a spinneret latched onto Drillago’s head, and the machine stumbled out to the center of the field.

“Every monster and player on the field is now a possible target,” Joey said. “And whichever one the spinner lands on is the one that’ll get attacked.”

Kaiba leaned forward, bracing his palms on the front edge of his cart. “Shooting blindfolded isn’t the worst strategy imaginable, Wheeler. It doesn’t even count as strategy at all.”

“My luck ain’t failed me yet, Kaiba.”

Mai didn’t know what result Joey was hoping for (possibly an attack on either Kaiba or himself simply to rush for a position in the finals), but there were five players and four monsters, which meant her odds of being attacked had gone from a certainty down to one in nine. She and Yuugi were the only players still at 4000 lifepoints.

As if he stood on a vinyl record, Drillago whirled in place, and the spider’s red pointer whirled until it slowed and landed—

Pointing at Yuugi.

The spider vanished, and Drillago leapt forward to drill into Yuugi’s chest. His cart rose.

Mai was the last player at 4000. The one in line to be eliminated. It wasn’t how she’d hoped the Qualifier would go.

After one facedown card, Marik ended his turn.

And then it was her turn. Her chance to make up for lost ground. But when she looked at her cards even after her draw phase, she had to admit it would not be an easy battle.

“I summon Cyber Harpie Lady [1800/1300] in attack mode,” she announced, sliding a magic card into play at the same time, “and I’ll also play Elegant Egotist. If I have a Harpie Lady on the field, this spell allows me to special summon her two Harpie Lady Sisters [1950/2100].”

Three harpies swooped onto the field, one in purple armor and two in gold. Along with her Amazoness Fighter, Mai had four monsters total, the most of any player. If her first goal was simply to lower her own lifepoints, the solution was clear.

“Harpie Lady Sisters”—she pointed at Kaiba—“attack Kaiba’s dragon.”

But Kaiba was ready for her with a facedown trap called The Strong Survive, which prevented him from being attacked by cards with more than 1500 attack points for the next three turns. Since Mai couldn’t take battle damage from attacks involving her Amazoness, she was out of easy options—there was no one else with higher attack points than her own monsters.

She’d entered Battle City looking for something. Something she still hadn’t found. It couldn’t all end here.

After examining her hand carefully, she glanced at Joey. The boy fidgeted in his cart, stepping back and forth from one side to the other. His ears were as red as they’d been since the start of the match.

Upon entering the qualifier, Mai had told herself she would be strategic—she would take the smartest opening and face whoever that turned out to be.

But if she was honest with herself, there was only one duel in the semi-finals that had truly impressed her, only one duelist she itched to face, one duelist she didn’t know if she could beat. Everyone else had charged into the qualifier with clear targets. She’d been wrong not to.

With a smile, she slid a card into play. “I place one card facedown and end my turn.”

++++++++++

Yami dove into his next turn with full focus. He’d lost Buster Blader to the effect of Marik’s Helpoemer, but he drew the Dark Magician Girl [2000/1700] at the start of his turn, one of the two cards he’d wanted, which he chose to take as a good omen. He sacrificed his Obnoxious Celtic Guard to summon the female magician, and she left a trail of glitter as she swept onto the field. When he played Magic Formula, her attack points rose to 2500.

“I’ll also play the spell card Premature Burial,” he said. “By paying 800 lifepoints, I can special summon a monster from my graveyard.”

He returned his elven warrior to the field, and as his cart rose toward the ceiling, the holograms of his monsters rose with him. He stopped just before reaching the 1500 lifepoint marker.

He was in the lead. Marik was closest to him at 1800.

All he had to do was keep it that way.

“Dark Magician Girl.” His magician perked up at her name. She twirled her spiral staff and winked. “Attack Drillago.”

If his magician destroyed Marik’s monster, Marik would have only 900 lifepoints left.

“Thought you’d come for me, Pharaoh.” Marik smirked. “So eager.”

Dark Magician Girl gripped her pointed hat and slashed her staff though the air. A ball of crackling dark energy shot toward Marik’s monster. Yami held his breath.

Drillago burst apart.

Yami relaxed.

But he’d done it too soon.

Marik’s facedown card rose.

“Spell of Pain,” Marik announced. “When an attack or effect would damage me, I can switch the damage to my opponent. I think Joey Wheeler could go for a good dose of pain.”

Joey hissed as his lifepoints dropped. His cart rose a foot or so above Yami’s level, stopping exactly at the 1500 marker.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Marik cackled. “Looks like Wheeler’s on track to lose first. He’d make a lovely opponent for you, Pharaoh. An easy victim to crush. I’m sure I’ll still be around when you’re finished, though I can’t promise your other friends will remain in pristine condition after quality alone time with me.”

Yami ground his teeth. The nails of his empty hand dug into his palm as he clenched his fist until his veins popped.

“Face me in a duel, why don’tcha.” Joey shot Marik a glare. “Then we’ll see who’s easy to crush.”

Yami had only one card left. If he didn’t place it on the field, he would lose it to Marik’s Helpoemer effect, which remained active throughout the rest of the match. He slid Seven Tools of the Bandit into a slot.

“I’ll play one card facedown,” he said.

“You’re out of cards.” Marik clucked his tongue, but he grinned. “A good duelist never has an unintentional empty hand.”

Yami swallowed. “That ends my turn.”

If he’d drawn a Card of Sanctity on his first turn. If he’d drawn Pot of Greed or Graceful Charity. If he’d drawn . . .

But he hadn’t. And now he was out of moves while Kaiba was obviously on the hunt to face Marik himself. Maybe he would succeed, or maybe Marik would redirect his attacks, too, and drag Joey into the first match.

Either way, someone else would end up in a shadow game.

Either way, Marik would toy with someone else’s life while he danced just out of Yami’s reach.

The Millennium Puzzle heated against his chest. He gripped the chain.

From across the field, Marik’s eyes widened, but they widened in glee.

A shadow game right now would involve everyone. It wasn’t an option.

Yami didn’t have any options.

++++++++++

Joey hated the feeling of being laughed at. Even if he just felt the prickle that made him suspect it, he was ready to fight. He’d punched out kids for just daring a sideways smirk. His dad laughed out loud, and it grated on him every time; his mom laughed silently, and it grated on him even more.

Rich-boy was always laughing at him. He thought Joey didn’t belong in his fancy tourney, and the best way to prove him wrong would be to knock him out of it completely.

 _Focus up, Joey Wheeler,_ he told himself. _It’s now or never._

Below him, Serenity waved a banner with his name on it. He gathered his courage and breath, and he drew a card.

But before he could make a move, Kaiba piped up, announcing that his Reaper’s Ritual was still in effect. His dragon got another 1200 attack points, and Rich-boy’s life dropped the same. His cart rose even with the pharaoh’s.

Well, good news, then. He’d be even easier to knock down to zero.

Joey had drawn Time Wizard. It was a big gamble, but it was a gamble he would have to take.

“I play Time Wizard [500/400],” he declared, slapping the card down on his Duel Disk. His stubby monster appeared, looking like an old-fashioned alarm clock with pointed shoes and a magic wand.

Kaiba snorted. “Congratulations. The one duel that card might be useful in. But self-destruction still isn’t strategy.”

“We’ll see who’s destructin’, Kaiba.”

Joey took another deep breath. He’d won against Ishizu with luck; he could win against Kaiba.

“Time Roulette, go!” he shouted.

His stout little monster leapt in the air and lifted his wand. The top of it was a spinner on a background of castles and skulls. A castle would mean his opponent’s monsters all got destroyed regardless of attack power, and his opponent would take damage equal to half their attack points.

It would mean a big fat zero for Kaiba.

“Say goodbye to your precious dragon, Rich-boy.”

Kaiba scowled. “I’d never lose Blue-Eyes to you.”

A skull would mean the same fate for Joey—the loss of his monsters and half their attack as damage. But he had faith.

The red arrow spun and slowed until it ticked through the options one at a time. Skull. Castle. Skull.

Castle.

It stopped: skull.

“Congratulations, Wheeler. Self-destruction is all you’re good at.”

In a burst of smoke, Time Wizard and Gearfried both disappeared.

And Joey’s lifepoints dropped to 350.

The cart rattled slightly as it rose, and Joey was glad he was high enough up Serenity couldn’t see his face anymore.

He was in the lead. Technically.

But Joey knew what losing felt like.

Even if he faced Kaiba, could he really win?

 _“Think you’re good enough, boy?”_ His dad’s gravelly laughter echoed all around him.

He didn’t even look at his remaining cards. Didn’t set anything facedown.

“I end my turn,” he said bitterly.

++++++++++

Seto had planned. He’d acted with precision.

And the final turn had come.

For the first time, he locked eyes with Marik and said coldly, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Marik smiled coldly back. “Come at me, priest.”

Seto could wipe Marik out with a single direct attack—it would be glorious overkill. But the goal wasn’t only to drain Marik’s lifepoints. He wasn’t about to send Marik to the finals first only to have Yuugi swoop in to face him.

No, every action had to be precise. The tie he’d been unable to create at the dock had to be created now.

It would take six moves.

If his deck failed him by one card, he would lose his opening to Yuugi or, worse, _Wheeler._

So he couldn’t fail.

“I play Silent Doom,” he said.

Move number one.

Silent Doom allowed him to special summon one monster from the graveyard in face-up defense position. He chose Helpoemer [2000/1400], and he gave it to Marik.

“How gracious.” The Egyptian cocked his head. “What’s your strategy?”

Seto smirked. He activated his facedown trap, Ring of Destruction. If it succeeded, it would destroy Helpoemer and inflict damage to both players equal to the monster’s attack strength. A success would seal the deal and finalize a match between himself and Marik as the first duel of the finals.

It wouldn’t succeed.

Move number two.

“Activate trap: Seven Tools of the Bandit,” Yuugi cried. His facedown card flipped. It was a common trap, one that canceled out another trap at the cost of 1000 lifepoints, one Yuugi’d had in his deck since before Duelist Kingdom. After its activation, he was down to 600 lifepoints, but it didn’t matter. Seto had seen right through his moves. He’d been disappointingly off his game since the start of the match.

“Get a hold of yourself before our duel, Yuugi,” he said. “I’d hate to claim my Battle City victory disappointed.”

Yuugi practically snarled. “Kaiba, he’ll kill you.”

_Not if I kill him first._

Seto slid Card of Demise into play. It allowed him to draw until he had a five-card hand. Normally, he would have to discard his entire hand after five standby phases, but this duel wouldn’t last that long.

Move number three.

This was it—the move everything else hinged on. The uncertain middle where chance of failure was highest.

Seto squared his shoulders, banished every inch of doubt.

And he drew his cards.

Blue-Eyes seemed to shine a little more brightly on the field. The corner of Seto’s lips twitched. Far below him, Mokuba watched, and Seto was certain his brother was smiling, too.

Seto played Stop Defense, forcing Helpoemer into attack position.

Move number four.

“Just going to blast me away now, are you?” Marik said. “Cross your fingers that the pharaoh doesn’t follow?”

“Unlike some people on this field,” Seto answered, “I don’t leave anything to chance.”

He played Interdimensional Matter Transporter, removing Blue-Eyes from play until the end phase of his turn. His field was bare, nothing between himself and Marik’s monster.

Move number five.

Yuugi made a pathetic plea. “Kaiba, don’t.”

“Save your breath, Yuugi. You played a solid game in the semi-finals, but now your resolve is melting in the tournament heat.”

But he wouldn’t be deterred. “You can’t face Marik.”

Seto narrowed his eyes. “It seems I’m the only duelist on this field who can. Without the skills to back it, your eagerness to face him is nothing but pathetic. Spend less time with Wheeler; you’re beginning to sound like him.”

Seto raised the final card in his strategy.

“I’d offer to toss you the scraps,” he said, glancing once more at Yuugi, “but there won’t be any.”

He played Enemy Controller.

Move number six.

The spell card cost 1000 lifepoints to activate, knocking him down to 600. Just enough to remain alive for the final step. Using Enemy Controller, he ordered Marik’s monster into a direct attack. Helpoemer leapt forward, slashed its jagged claws through Seto’s chest, but all he did was smile.

After its attack, it self-destructed, and the explosion subtracted its attack points from Marik’s health.

With the same move, they both hit zero. A perfect tie.


	31. Left Behind

As the ceiling opened and Kaiba and Marik rose out of sight beyond it, Yami’s stomach fell. Marik shot a smirk his way just before disappearing. From far below, the referee declared the first match of the finals would be held between Seto Kaiba and Marik Ishtar, immediately following the conclusion of the Qualifier.

He’d lost. And now it would be one more match before he could face Marik. Who knew what fate Kaiba would suffer in the meantime.

The dueling field hung in silence, like it echoed his devastation. Only he, Joey, and Mai remained. Joey was at 350 lifepoints; he was at 600. Mai was still at a full 4000. It was clear what the next match would be. What was the point in even continuing?

Below him, Mai drew a card in the silence.

“I equip my Cyber Harpie Lady with Rose Whip,” she declared. Her harpie rose to 2100 attack points.

And then Yami felt the burn in his arm as she attacked. His Celtic Guard wasn’t destroyed by the attack thanks to his special effect, but it didn’t matter; it was enough to drain his lifepoints to zero.

It was over.

The ceiling above him opened, and his cart rose into another small room. Faint lights glowed at the edges of the ceiling, the only light in the room as the floor closed and the cart powered down. At the corner of the room, a small exit staircase waited, no doubt to take him to the roof of the tower.

Yami gathered his cards. Stacked them. Replaced them in his deck holder. But he didn’t leave. He leaned against the back edge of the cart and sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

He almost wasn’t surprised when Shadi appeared.

They stood in silence, just looking at each other until Yami said, “Go on.”

“Perhaps now you see my point.” Shadi’s face was expressionless. “As long as she is a distraction for you, you can accomplish nothing.”

Yami unlatched his Duel Disk and set it beside him on the metal edge of the cart. His skin had faint red lines to show where the cuff had been.

“Marik is being controlled by his item,” he said slowly. “That’s what Ishizu told us.”

The Millennium Puzzle seemed heavier on its chain. Yami pictured the shadows within, the swirling red skulls in the dark.

“Where does it come from? The dark power in the items?”

Shadi said nothing.

“You’re always eager to share knowledge.” Yami narrowed his eyes. “So share it.”

But Shadi looked away. His thick gold earrings reflected dimly in the low light.

“Another question, then. _You_ said within the rod is the mind that will never forget. So is everything he says about the past true?”

 _“Grind my bones.”_ Marik’s crooked smile seemed to lurk just outside his vision. “ _Set my blood in gold. You’ve sung that tune before.”_

_“I could tell you about your life, Pharaoh. Wouldn’t you like to know?”_

Shadi moved to speak, hesitated. His earrings rotated just a bit, cast the reflection of gold across the shoulders of his white robe.

_“3,000 years ago, you killed her. As you killed me.”_

“Speak,” Yami ordered, his voice more commanding than it had ever been.

And Shadi sighed. “My pharaoh, there are events in the past that have been sealed even for those of us who lived them.”

“For _everyone_ who lived them—you’re certain of that?”

Shadi looked down. “I thought I was. But perhaps the scales are more unbalanced than I ever imagined.”

“You . . .” Yami started chuckling, low and drawn out and completely unamused. “You play god every time you appear, but you’re just making it up as you go, aren’t you? Stumbling in the dark as much as the rest of us.”

“I never imagined I was. Even knowing that every Millennium Item holder is at times blinded by the shadows, I thought awareness alone kept me exempt.”

“You’re a fool. We all are.” Yami rubbed his neck beneath the chain, and the puzzle swung gently against his chest. If he could have, he would have removed the item, set it aside even for a few minutes. But the chain was an appropriate symbol of the cold reality—without the puzzle, he couldn’t stand in the real world at all. Without it, he couldn’t live a single moment.

Which meant his every moment was tainted by shadows, even when he thought he was free of the influence.

“The shadows,” Yami said, “tell me I’m justice incarnate. Incapable of mistake. That I can hold the very world together by my bare hands if I will it. Too often, I believe it, and then I stumble just when it’s most important to walk straight. What do yours tell you?”

The spirit looked even paler than death. “That I can balance the scales. That I alone can tip and measure and ensure equality.”

“So I run headfirst into my worst mistakes, and you create the very chaos you’re attempting to avoid.”

What did Yori’s tell her?

Did she listen?

“I believe the prophecies,” Shadi said, though his voice wasn’t very convincing.

“These ‘prophecies’ you tombkeepers hold to—how are they given?” Yami raised an eyebrow. “Through the Millennium Necklace?”

“Not all,” Shadi said.

Answer enough.

“Tell me about the past. Don’t tell me _prophecies._ Tell me what you remember. What you actually lived.” Yami hesitated. “Please.”

After a few moments of silence, Shadi walked to the side of the cart. He leaned against the wall next to the track, stared straight ahead rather than meeting Yami’s eyes.

“There isn’t much,” he said. “3,000 years of living is like a constant sandstorm against the past, eroding even the most precious of memories. Sometimes I wonder if what I do remember is even real or if I’ve reinvented it through the years of silent retellings.”

Yami swallowed. “Tell me anyway.”

“We had a courtyard.” The spirit’s eyes glazed, as if he were staring into a distant mirror Yami couldn’t see. “My mother would scold me for dipping my hands in the fountain. She was afraid I would drown. I was much younger than you, so during most of the final events of your life, I was in that courtyard. Hiding from my mother. Dipping my hands in a fountain.”

Yami scarcely breathed. “Was I pharaoh when you were born?”

“No, I don’t believe so. But I can’t remember when you took the throne, so perhaps.” Shadi pursed his lips, thought for a few moments more, then continued, “I never saw my father without the Millennium Bracelet, so the items were created at least before my recollection, likely before my birth.”

“Your father—” Yami nearly choked. “Your father had the bracelet? What of Yori?”

“Yaara?” Shadi smiled. “She was no priest. She was born a slave.”

At Yami’s expression, his smile softened. “Perhaps the best recommendation of your past character I can make is that you loved her anyway. I can’t remember ever seeing you in person, but I remember Yaara’s stories. The shadow of them, at least. I believe she single-handedly shaped my impression of the pharaoh from a silhouette on a palace balcony into someone fiercely human.”

“Was she . . . ?” Yami’s voice strangled itself into silence as his mind raced.

“From the beginning, then. She served first as a slave at the palace, a stranger to me, and if I was ever told of her duties there, the details are lost to me now. When I was perhaps six years of age, she came to serve in our household. The others in the house used to gossip about her, and though I can’t remember what was said, I know I was warned not to trust her.”

“Clearly you obeyed.” Despite himself, Yami smiled. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hold in his jittering heart. Marik had told him he’d killed Yori. In truth, he’d loved her.

Perhaps his identity in the past wasn’t to be feared after all.

“She was charming,” Shadi said, as if that explained it all. “Outspoken. Witty. It will likely come as no surprise when I tell you that slave or no slave, she was not the type to keep her head down. But she was also kind. She never resented me for being born to a higher station, and she never talked down to me for being a child. She was my friend.”

“Have you told her this?”

“Not the full details. Perhaps I should.” For the first time, Shadi looked at him. “We have started with happiness, but I remember times beyond that.”

It was enough to steal the energy from Yami’s heart. But he forced himself to face the truth he had asked for. “What else?”

“I remember the first attack on the palace. I don’t remember when it happened, but I saw the smoke from our courtyard. I thought I saw monsters clash within it—who knows if they were real monsters or my imagination of people. The guards said it was a man who called himself a king, that he’d come to declare war against the pharaoh. My mother hoped it was exaggerated. We were in the time of Egypt’s greatest peace, and she had never imagined a war within my lifetime. Her hopes were in vain.”

“That’s the war,” Yami said, “that never ended. The one you say has started over again in Domino.”

“The very same, my pharaoh.”

“What happened?”

Shadi looked away again. “Those memories have been sealed. I know it claimed the life of everyone I loved, but I can’t remember how. 3,000 years I’ve asked myself how my father died, and only silence has answered back.”

Yami’s heart pinched. “There’s a feeling I know well.”

“There is one image. The impression of an idea I at times catch in my dreams.” Shadi looked to the ceiling, or perhaps beyond it. He hesitated. “The idea that my father was killed not by an enemy, but by a fellow priest.”

Silence fell in the dim room, and goosebumps rose on Yami’s arms.

“Perhaps I cling to prophecy,” Shadi said, “because I am confused by my own mind. Or perhaps the truth is our Egypt rotted from the head.”

He cast Yami a pointed look, and Yami wished he could deny the possibility with confidence.

“Perhaps your priests betrayed you, my pharaoh, and they orchestrated your death and sealing within the Millennium Puzzle. Perhaps the betrayal came first from you, and the court supported your actions because we trusted Pharaoh to be God on Earth. Perhaps my own father was the traitor, and my household was killed in punishment. Perhaps the truth is something else entirely.” He smiled tightly. “It is a terrible thing to wonder at the very ground one stands upon.”

Another feeling Yami knew well.

“The rest of my memory, then: My father gave the bracelet to Yaara. I remember that, although I cannot picture his face as he did so. I remember he told her she held the hopes of all Egypt, that she was the unexpected key that prophecy had overlooked. I remember the day news broke within the city that the pharaoh and all his court was dead. I cannot remember if the cry was true, nor what had caused the tragedy besides ‘war.’ I remember the day I was anointed as a tombkeeper and given charge to guard the Millennium Items with my life, a life which, through the blessing of Ra, was extended to that future time when the nameless pharaoh returned.”

“It must have been hard,” Yami said. He’d lived those years in darkness. Shadi had watched time creep by in excruciating detail.

“All lives are,” Shadi said.

“Thank you.” Yami swallowed. “For your honesty and your service.”

Shadi blinked. After a moment, he gave a nod.

“You said . . .” Yami hesitated, then pressed on, “the war of the past was a war between gods. The man who attacked the palace—which god did he champion?”

“The names have been sealed.”

Of course. Shadi’s memories hadn’t given him many answers, but he would take what he could get. And though the man was at times irritating, Yami trusted him far more than possessed Marik (or normal Marik, for that matter).

Shadi stepped away from the wall. Then he turned back. “Speculation is no replacement for truth, but I do remember one thing about the monsters I saw the day the palace was attacked.”

Yami waited.

“One was a god monster. The God of the Obelisk, commandable only by a pharaoh.”

Had it been a duel? Ishizu had hinted as much at the museum—that dueling had existed in a very real form in Ancient Egypt, through magic tied to the Millennium Items.

“What of the other?” Yami asked.

Shadi opened his mouth, paused, then said simply, “It was gold.”

Not the answer Yami had expected. “I’m afraid I fail to see the significance.”

“There is a certain god who claims the color as his own.”

Yami frowned. As he racked his limited memory, it was Sugoroku’s voice that came to mind, the day Yori had first come to the game shop. _“Gold is representative of the sun god, Ra, who was believed to be partially incarnated into each new pharaoh.”_

“No.” Yami shook his head. “That wouldn’t make sense.”

“It wouldn’t,” Shadi agreed.

“You told me I was Ra’s champion.” Mr. Mutou had said that Ra’s power was incarnated into each pharaoh.

“I told you every pharaoh is chosen of Ra. Such is our belief.”

Yami remembered all too well the fury he’d felt at seeing Marik’s copy of the phoenix god card, how seeing a soulless Ra had felt like a crime against his own soul. Surely the reason had to be that part of himself, however small, stemmed from Ra.

But he also remembered sitting with Yori on the floor of the game shop late at night while she told him, _“Apparently I stole from Ra, and he wants me dead.”_

Yami had made a casual joke about beating Pegasus and said he could help her beat another creator, but he hadn’t put real thought into the implications. There had been so much happening at the time. His mind had been on Kaiba’s challenge, on the upcoming tournament, on the recent discoveries at the Egyptian exhibit.

What if Ra wasn’t only against her but against him?

What if Ra had started the war?

“Ra is the great god of Egypt,” Yami said, like that meant something. His mind tumbled over itself in an attempt to understand.

Shadi shook his head. “It was Osiris who flooded the Nile to lend fertility to the land of Egypt, Osiris who tended her soils and her people. Ra is the god of _all_ creation, the god of all humanity.”

“But he was called father to the pharaohs.”

“In my experience, a father is as bound to scold as to encourage.”

Somehow, Yami had thought there were a few things he could be certain of. Even without direct memory of his religion, of the gods he’d once worshipped, he’d heard Sugoroku speak of them often enough, and each mention had comforted his soul. He’d faced enemies in the mortal item holders; he’d never once looked to the heavens and expected to find enemies there.

“It is not my place to speak for the gods,” Shadi said, “and not their obligation to speak to me. Therefore, with truth so hard to come by, I will continue to trust in prophecy over my own wild speculation.”

“Yuugi’s there,” Yami whispered in sudden dawning horror.

When he’d used the necklace to see the boy with Ra, he’d shied from Ra’s presence, even though he’d had no reason for the action.

Perhaps the reason was that an unremembered corner of his soul recognized in Ra his enemy.

“Ra has Yuugi. He’s been there since Yori’s duel.” Yami swung the cart railing open, one foot already raised to run, only realizing after he’d done so that it was a pointless action. It wasn’t like he could go charging after his partner.

When he glanced at Shadi, something in the tombkeeper’s expression gave him pause.

“Did you know?” he demanded, another pointless action since it wasn’t like the spirit could have done anything about it.

“I have not the link to the child which you possess,” Shadi said. There was still something there, in his tone, in his rigidly blank expression. Yami was used to standing across the field from the best and worst poker faces.

“What is it?” he said. “What are you not saying?”

“I felt the imbalance when I visited you at Yori’s bedside. I assumed you were aware, assumed it was impossible you _couldn’t_ know.” Shadi reached within his robe, extracted the Millennium Scales. The item trembled in his hand, and one basket drooped dangerously low.

“Aware of _what?”_

“Of Yuugi’s death.”

As the world crashed around him, the silence rang in Yami’s ears.

++++++++++

Joey tensed as the pharaoh’s cart rose out of sight. It was just him and Mai left. He had to scoot forward and peer over the edge of his cart a bit to see her, and she had on a fierce scowl that made him sweat. Even with him only at 350 lifepoints and her at the full 4000, he had no doubt she had tricks up her sleeve to flip everything on its head. She wouldn’t have sent Yami ahead otherwise. He was obviously the opponent she wanted to face.

And she deserved to. Joey’d done it again—gotten tunnel vision and played right into Kaiba’s hands. Rich-boy had gotten what he’d wanted, and Joey was about to get eliminated.

“Well now, mon cher.” Mai raised her voice, and it echoed up the metal tower. “It is a new duel.”

He tried for a smile, tried to be happy for her. Honestly, she deserved the finals more than he did anyway. Kaiba was right, and Joey kept proving it.

She activated her facedown card. As it rose and cast shining light across the tower, Joey swallowed. Would it be a trap to flip their lifepoints? Maybe Swords of Revealing Light to keep him from doing anything for three turns?

It was a spell card, not a trap. Something called Gallant Gift, with a picture of a ribbon-wrapped box bursting at the seams with sunlight. Beyond the familiar blue-green border that marked all spell cards, Joey didn’t recognize it.

Mai was quick to tell him. “If my opponent’s lifepoints are below mine, I may draw cards. But for each card I draw, my opponent gains 2000 lifepoints.”

Joey blinked. “Hang on. That—”

She drew a card.

Joey’s stomach rose as his cart lowered down the wall like an elevator. He gripped the side rail with his empty hand—going down in an open cart was much worse than going up. He released a breath as he came to a stop just below the 2000-point marker.

“Hmm. Not quite the card I hoped for.” Mai glanced up at him, and she drew another card.

“Mai—” The cart dropped again, and he grabbed the railing.

He reached the bottom, back to the starting point, and Mai met his gaze evenly from across the tower.

“There now.” Her expression softened. “A fair fight.”

His face burned. “Just go to the finals, Mai. You don’t gotta fight me for it; I’ll withdraw.”

“Don’t you dare!” she snapped. “I have chosen my opponent just as Monsieur Kaiba did. Only a coward would rob me of it.”

“You don’t wanna fight me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a hack! You heard Kaiba. I only got this far by clingin’ to Yuugi. You deserve a real opponent.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Serenity, saw her crestfallen expression and drooping banner. He couldn’t bear to look right at her; it had been better to be thirty feet in the air.

Mai just stared at him until he finally met her eyes again. Then she said, “The duelist I met on the boat to Pegasus’s island is not the same duelist who won such an outstanding victory last night in the semi-finals. You have grown, mon cher. More than you can see from inside the reflection.”

“Nah,” Joey said tightly, “I ain’t grown at all.”

He’d thought he had, but he still had the same weaknesses, the same problems. He still couldn’t survive on his own.

She shook her head. “Then prove it. If you fight your best against me and lose, I will believe your self-pity. But not until I see it with my own eyes.”

He sighed. Even the idea of drawing a card felt like more effort than he could give, but the arguing was draining, too, and Mai was stubborn.

“Fine,” he said. What was one more public humiliation when he already had so many?

“The use of Gallant Gift automatically ends my turn. Your move, mon cher.”

Joey drew a card. He could barely even see it. Most of him just wanted to give up and lie down; it was the same feeling he got after one of his dad’s beatings. But he took a deep breath just like he did at those times, and he blinked hard, and he looked at his hand.

He had Magical Arm Shield facedown on the field. He had no monsters, thanks to his own Time Wizard. Just thinking of it made that zero-energy feeling stronger.

“Baby Dragon [1200/700],” he announced. “Attack mode.”

He pressed the card to a monster slot, and the small orange dragon gave a happy chirp as it appeared on the field. If Kaiba had still been in the room, he would have made some quip about how Joey couldn’t even muster a full dragon. Joey looked up at the ceiling. _Any time you wanna fall in on me,_ he thought, _be my guest._

Mai had four monsters on the field, all of them stronger than his pathetic dragon.

He could just end his turn. He had no other monsters in his hand, and he only had one normal summon per turn anyway. There was no way he’d catch up to Mai’s monster army.

But dropping to zero meant going to the finals. And Joey couldn’t stand the thought of facing Yami in a fight. There were some humiliations he drew the line at. So he plucked another card from his hand and slid it into a spell slot.

“I play Scapegoat.”

Four little balls of fluff with curled ram’s horns appeared before him, each one a different color. They couldn’t attack, and they couldn’t be used for a tribute summon, but they had to be destroyed individually before his other monsters could be attacked. Four trash monsters to delay the inevitable.

“Turn end.”

As Mai drew her card, Joey stuck his empty hand in his pocket out of force of habit. His fingers hit something hard, and he blinked in surprise.

It was the glass piglet, the one Kris had given him.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, gripped the railing instead.

He was glad she hadn’t come to watch.


	32. Home Invasion

Yuugi might have screamed. If he did, no one heard it, so there were no witnesses to his shriek which may or may not have been pre-pubescent in pitch.

As the massive stag beetle ripped the game shop door from its hinges, the bells jingled to match the sound of shattering glass. The doorframe remained stuck on its left pincer (which was as big as Yuugi’s entire body), and it reared back, scraping the metal frame across the pavement until it finally came free.

In the meantime, someone familiar ducked through the empty doorway, stepping his high-end sneakers gingerly around the glass shards, leering past his beetle-rimmed glasses.

Haga. The first opponent Yuugi—well, Yami—had eliminated at Duelist Kingdom.

A teal crystal hung from a black cord around his neck, glowing brightly green against his shirt. Sparks of the same green reflected in his eyes as he advanced on Yuugi’s grandpa, hunched behind the register.

“Where’s Yuugi, old man?” Haga gave a nasally cackle.

Yuugi’s mouth went dry.

“Not back from the tournament yet. Irresponsible Yuugi. I guess I’ll bulldoze his home to teach him a lesson!”

Haga swept a hand out, and the stag beetle charged forward, ramming its pincers like elephant tusks into the side of the game shop, piercing straight through the wall and sending game boxes crashing to the floor, spilling their innards like marbles across the hardwood.

“Stop it!” Yuugi shouted, hugging himself.

But of course—

—Haga couldn’t hear.

The beetle retreated and charged again, knocking bigger holes, spilling Duel Monsters cards into the air.

Haga cackled again, hysterically drunk on whatever green power glowed in his eyes. “Where’s your shelf of insect cards, old man? I’ll add to my army!”

Yuugi rushed to his grandpa’s side, tried to help the man stand, but he was useless, useless, useless. Grandpa slapped at his heart, trying to catch his breath. He might be having a heart attack, and Yuugi couldn’t even pick up a phone.

//Yami!// he cried. A stupid instinct. Ever since solving the puzzle, he’d always turned to Yami for help.

But only silence answered now.

Haga advanced again, kicking a few red game pieces carelessly from his path. Yuugi stood, placing himself as a barrier no more effective than a puff of air. He threw his arms out, willed his hands to stop Haga in place. They didn’t. Haga passed right through his palms, not even a shiver to show he’d felt anything.

Grandpa struggled to his feet, still clutching his chest. He hobbled toward the phone, but Haga ripped the entire receiver off the wall and tossed it over his shoulder.

“No warning him now.” He smiled with teeth tinted green in the crystal’s light. “I want Yuugi to be oh, so surprised.”

Behind him, the stag beetle brought an entire section of the wall crashing down. The ceiling groaned.

“What do . . . you want?” Grandpa huffed, eyes wide with a fear that twisted Yuugi’s heart.

Haga gripped the crystal, its sickly glow bursting like sunbeams between his fingers. “I want Yuugi to suffer.”

If only he knew Ra had beaten him to it. Even if Haga had wanted to kill him, Ra had beaten him to it.

Ra—Yuugi turned his gaze to the ceiling, shouted desperately, “Do something! Save my grandpa!”

But once again.

Silence.

Grandpa straightened with effort. “Get out of my shop.”

But Haga only cackled. The giant beetle reared this way and that, smashing its pincers into what was left of the doorframe, into the shelves, scattering plaster and fragmented game boards with every swing. It punctured the wall that divided the shop and kitchen, and on the far side, Yuugi heard the shattering of dishes.

“Come to think of it . . .” Haga’s smile turned cold. “You’re the only family he has, aren’t you? He wouldn’t stop yammering about it at Duelist Kingdom.”

“Haga, don’t,” Yuugi said.

“Boy, I bet he’d suffer . . . if I killed you.”

“Haga, please!” Yuugi tried to grab him, but there was only air.

Though he still struggled for breath, Grandpa seemed to have lost his fear. He gripped the counter for support and remained standing. “You’re younger than Yuugi.”

“Shut up,” Haga snarled. He dropped the crystal. It bounced slightly against his shirt.

“Fourteen, aren’t you? The youngest national champion Japan’s ever had—younger than Kaiba when he had the title.” At Haga’s slack jaw, Grandpa’s lips twitched. “Yes, I keep up with broadcasts. You’re a talented boy, Haga. Perhaps you can stop wrecking my home, and we can have a civil conversation.”

For a moment, the green light in Haga’s eyes flickered. The crystal dimmed. The beetle wavered, twitching its left pincer just shy of the battered wall. Yuugi barely dared to breathe.

“I broke records,” Haga said quietly. Then his face set in a scowl. “But Yuugi humiliated me. He trained _Wheeler_ to humiliate me.”

“Losing is part of the game, son.”

“Then it’s time for Yuugi to lose!” The crystal flared with light, brighter than ever.

“So because you lost a few card games, my grandson should lose his home and family?”

The beetle slammed into the wall with more force than ever. The house trembled, and the ceiling gave another loud groan. Haga smirked. “If the punishment isn’t worse than the crime, how will he learn not to cross me again?”

Yuugi glanced once more at the ceiling, but he didn’t speak. The god wouldn’t answer no matter how he pleaded. He would stand back and let Yuugi’s entire life cave in, let it all collapse to rubble. Yuugi would still be standing even if his upstairs bedroom collapsed right through him, and since nothing could hurt him, there was no incentive for Ra to intervene. No motivating factor until Yuugi was the one who caved. If he did, maybe he could bargain for whatever he wanted.

But Yori would die.

Grandpa’s knuckles whitened against the counter. “Where did you get that crystal?”

Haga swirled the black cord around his finger. “I was chosen by a _god.”_

Yuugi’s eyes widened. Had Ra orchestrated it all?

How far would he go to force Yuugi’s hand?

“It’s driving you mad, son.”

“You’re just jealous.” Haga’s expression hardened, and he snatched a Duel Monsters card from the floor by his sneaker. “Yuugi’s not the one on top anymore. Now I’ve got power he can’t dream of! And I’ll crush everything he loves!”

He slapped the card to his chest, covering the crystal, and immediately, a green light took form on the face of it. Green lines spread, crossed, branched, until the shape of a unicursal hexagram burned from the illustration. Then Haga hurled the card forward, and it vanished—

—replaced by a screeching, purple-armored centipede the size of Yuugi’s leg.

Yuugi acted on instinct, dashing in front of his grandpa. It was useless, but he had to.

And then he cried out in pain as the insect sank its pincer-like front legs into his chest.

Grandpa and Haga both stared.

Yuugi stared.

The centipede screeched once more and yanked away. Yuugi gasped, clutching his chest as blood stained his shirt. The insect retreated to Haga, curling behind his legs.

“What . . . ?” Yuugi stared at his hand, at the blood. He was dead. Wasn’t he? Invisible.

A faint outline took shape against his shirt, the outline of the Millennium Puzzle. The barest gold shimmers to suggest at the item Yami wore miles and miles away. In his mind, faint shadows whispered.

“Grandpa—” Yuugi turned. Just as he did, his grandpa swung a broom like a baseball bat. It passed through Yuugi without effort, caught Haga in the face, and sent the invader crashing head-first into a set of shelves. The centipede shrieked. The beetle opened its thunderous wings, buzzing like ten beehives. But neither moved.

Grandpa hurried into the entertainment room, fumbling with the seldom-used side door. He exited the game shop before Haga was able to raise himself to his knees.

What had they seen? Yuugi wondered. Had the centipede just hung in midair, writhing against nothing? He groaned, doubling over. Blood still seeped against his fingers, and all evidence of the puzzle was gone.

“What am I?” he shouted at the ceiling. Dead didn’t seem to be the explanation. Something was wrong—either with Haga’s monster or him, either with Haga’s magic or his. But something was wrong.

Haga panted for breath, stumbling to his feet. He stuck a hand out, and the centipede vanished, flying to his palm as its respective monster card, which he then hurled angrily at the register. He stormed from the wreckage, and as he did so, the beetle buzzed along behind.

But Yuugi stared at his chest, because even while he watched, the wounds were closing.

Invulnerability—a given for death, but one that he’d assumed meant he couldn’t get hurt. Instead, it seemed to mean he couldn’t _stay_ hurt.

“This is a twisted game we’re playing,” he said to Ra.

//You may forfeit at any time,// came the response, unexpected and sharp.

Yuugi felt sick to his stomach. But he said, “I play every game to the end.”

++++++++++

“Think of it as a game,” Shada said. “It may help.”

Yori clenched her jaw. “I’d rather not.” Turning everything into a game was Haku’s specialty. She breathed deeply, exhaled slowly through her mouth, and said, “For me, it’ll be a fight.”

She touched her pocket; her switchblade wasn’t there. It might appear if she willed it, but it would be fake, so she flexed her empty hands, pressed her palms against the yellow stone wall of Shada’s roof, and stared out at the clear sky.

“Are you prepared?” Shada asked.

Yori nodded. “I’m always ready for a fight.”

Shada’s frown told her what she already knew; false bravado was part of her problem. But it was no simple matter to tell herself to drop all the defenses she’d held for years. No simple matter to say, “Change who you are, Yori.”

Even if it was change or die.

The priest rested a hand on her shoulder, and she barely had a moment to glance at it before he and the world around her melted away. Everything around her was black, but she stood in a circle of light, a spotlight on a night stage. The duel with Marik came to mind—perhaps she was going to be trapped reliving it over and over until she learned to be fearless for real.

Instead, gentle snowflakes drifted in the dark. She reached out to catch one on her palm, and the darkness melted away to her earliest memory, standing on the doorstep of an orphanage in Wakkanai. She was a child again, shivering in the cold.

“Who are you?” the headmistress barked, warm light bleeding from the entryway behind her.

Something surged in the back of Yori’s mind, like a tide coming in to drag at her legs, to loosen her footing. Had the fear always been so cold?

But this fear was easy to face. That cold October day, she’d had no idea who she was, had only an empty mind with which to answer demanding questions. Now she was a hundred things, an identity built over years of living.

“Yori Yoshida,” she said with a crooked grin. “Fighter, pickpocket, con artist—in short, whoever I have to be to survive.”

The headmistress squinted at her, and Shada’s voice echoed in her mind: //Now you know what it is to be fearless. A fear once carried, now looked in the eye with confidence.//

As soon as he said it, she felt the warmth. The tide that had dragged at her knees so many years ago barely brushed at her toes, no longer any threat to her solid stance.

//Every lesson should be said aloud,// he went on. //Say it.//

“What?” She shrugged. “I was afraid of . . . not knowing . . .” She waited for him to prompt her, feeling ever more ridiculous. “Can we just move on to the next memory or whatever?”

//If a lesson cannot be explained, it was never truly learned.//

“I think life is a little more complicated than that.”

The silence echoed back with all of the quiet patience of a man 3,000-years dead. Stubborn as they both were, Yori still had a feeling he could outlast her.

“Fine. I was afraid that having no name or family made me no one, made me meaningless. I was afraid if I’d forgotten my past, maybe I’d never remember anything—that I could make memories until I was thirty and not remember a single one. I was afraid I would never know who I was.”

//Good. What do you know now?//

“I know who I am.”

She thought of facing Shadi at the museum. He’d told her she had a past life, and though the fearful tide had washed in at that moment, it had barely swirled at her ankles, because regardless of past lives or forgotten memories, she still knew who she was. It didn’t change with Shadi’s revelation of an ancient life, and it didn’t change with Grandpa’s journal of her modern childhood, although she was grateful for both. 

“Who I am,” she said, “doesn’t have much to do with family or names or memories at all. It just has to do with me.”

//This is truth,// said Shada.

Around her, the snow flurried away, and the scene changed to the day she’d gone home with her first foster family.

“Yori, is it?” the mom said. “I hope you’ll be happy with us for a while.”

Yori realized suddenly she couldn’t even remember the woman’s name. Or the man’s, for that matter. There had been two other children in the house—the couple’s own son and another foster girl. The other girl had been waiting for a court ruling to put her back with her father. She knew where she was going. Yori sat on the couch silently while a caseworker talked about “hopeful upcoming permanence,” but she knew the truth; there was no one waiting to have her back, and her odds of adoption were slim. As the headmistress had told her, she was too old, too troublesome.

As she looked ahead at a future of being passed from house to house like a hot potato—switching schools, switching towns, switching families, switching rooms—the fear washed in, cold and powerful.

By the time she was put in a second family’s care, she’d already made her decision. And when she committed to run, she did it with full purpose, with no intention of looking back. She planned ahead, investigated the bus and train routes, stole the cash and her foster mother’s blonde hair dye (a misdirect to make them think she would stand out more in a crowd). Then, in the middle of a black night, she climbed out the window and didn’t stop running until she reached the Tokyo lights, almost a thousand miles from the home that had never been a home.

//What was your fear?//

Yori started, slapping a hand to her heart. Around her, the lights of the Shibuya district glowed in the dark as crowds filtered around her on the sidewalk.

She swallowed. “I was afraid of being powerless, of having no control over my own future. Just stagnantly waiting for some adult to decide I was likable enough or cute enough to add to the family—and who knew if that family wouldn’t be a worse nightmare than none at all.”

//What do you know now?//

Despite herself, Yori laughed. She glanced at an alleyway, where shadowed forms huddled in muted conversation while an oblivious world passed by. “Now I know being on your own doesn’t mean you control your future.” She swallowed. “By running away, I almost made it so I didn’t have a future at all.”

If she wasn’t starving or caught stealing, there were always a hundred other worries. In truth, she’d always wanted to go back. Better to have temporary homes with showers and food and school than to live even more temporarily in alleys and truck stops and libraries. But her pride told her if she ever went back, every sacrifice and struggle thus far would be wasted.

So she fought the battle to survive, because she was stupid enough to think it was better than the battle to be loved.

//This is truth.//

_ This is bleak,  _ Yori thought. Still, if this was all it was—cutting her life apart piece by piece to examine how far she’d come—it wasn’t so bad.

Just as she had the thought, the people and lights of Shibuya faded.

Only to be replaced by the familiar walls of Haku’s apartment.


	33. The Qualifier Elimination

Mai would always remember her first defeat at Duelist Kingdom. At the time, she’d already gathered four star chips, and her opponent was an obvious rookie who possessed only one—he hadn’t even been invited to the tournament; he’d hitched a ride on a soft-hearted friend willing to split star chips. Mai had never seen an easier target, and she’d challenged the blond high schooler with almost bored bravado.

“What’s your name, handsome?” she asked, batting her lashes in the way that made all the boys hit their knees.

But this stubborn boy remained standing. “Joey Wheeler. And I’ll duel ya with everythin’ I got.”

She should have seen her loss coming from that moment, but she’d still been too blind to imagine it. He didn’t do it alone—Yuugi Mutou shamelessly fed him tips and hints from the sidelines. Mai had encouraged it at first, laughing at the way her opponent couldn’t even stand on his own, certain that little blond Joey could never defeat her even with the world’s best coach at his shoulder. Joey fumbled his summons, gave away his strategies, and never showed a card with more than dime-store rarity. Yet his friends patiently cheered him on, and after each mistake, the boy brushed himself off and faced her once more with color in his cheeks and fire in his eyes until he finally emerged victor.

Over the course of three days at Duelist Kingdom, Mai learned more from Joey and his friends than from any past mentor or teacher. They taught her of kindness, friendship, and perseverance, of hard work and its rewards.

Yuugi was the most naturally gifted player she’d ever seen in a game, and at first, she imagined his friendship with Joey held him back, handicapped him as he bowed to carry another player. It took very few matches before she realized the truth—Yuugi could carry an entire world on his shoulders if it was for the people he cared about. Only for the people he cared about. Without them, he collapsed; she saw it in action after his defeat at Kaiba’s hands, when he pushed everyone away until Anzu made him see sense.

Joey was no one. He showed no innate talent in Duel Monsters, even struggling to the point it was painful to witness. Anyone else would have brushed him aside or gently told him to find another hobby—certainly Kaiba was always quick to trumpet how out of place Joey was on a dueling field—but Yuugi coached him anyway, and not with reluctance or passing interest, but with enthusiasm and faith. Mai watched from the sidelines in amazement: With just that little bit of guidance, Joey blossomed. In a tournament of the world’s best, although his head was always dipping underwater, he didn’t drown.

“Why do you teach him?” she asked Yuugi once, after they reunited during the finals.

As if it were obvious, Yuugi said, “Because he wants to be taught.”

“Have you considered, mon cher, if you teach too well? Only one champion may win any competition.”

She expected him to brush the thought off, perhaps say Joey might improve but never that much.

She should have known better.

Yuugi smirked. “One day, Joey will be a better duelist than I am. I expect it. In the meantime, I’ll win what I can.”

All her life, Mai had been surrounded by greed and jealousy. It was in her parents, who climbed corporate ladders and left the raising of their child to a budget nanny. It was in her school friends, who attached themselves to her for gain and detached themselves for the same. It was in her boyfriends, her coworkers, and it was certainly in her mirror. She was never heartbroken at someone else’s loss—even orchestrating it where she could—and she certainly didn’t celebrate anyone else’s victories.

But Yuugi and Joey did. Even though she was a threat to their standings in the tournament, they helped her recover her lost star chips from one of Pegasus’s hired player killers. Even knowing one of them would duel her come morning, they laughed with her the night before the finals. And even after Yuugi defeated her in the penultimate match, he looked at her with no less respect. Joey shared his sympathies at being Yuugi’s “duelin’ victim,” confiding in her that his own losses had reached triple digits, so she was at least worlds ahead of that. Not one snide taunt, not one pretended sympathy hiding a secret joy. Just genuine friendship, regardless of outcome.

Mai had never expected a chance to pay that back, but she saw it now in Battle City.

The old Mai would have taken advantage of Joey’s crushed spirit. But the new Mai did not want an easy victory, and more than that, it pained her to see him shrink after how far he’d come. Joey’s self-esteem was more important to her than the win, and if she was going to have a win, repairing his confidence had to come first.

Otherwise, it would be no win at all.

So she played The Unfriendly Amazon [2000/1000], a monster which required a tribute each turn to remain on the field. She sacrificed the first of her harpie sisters to it, and when her next turn rolled around, she sacrificed another.

“What are you doing, Mai?” Joey ground out, his voice taking a metallic edge in the confines of the tower.

“We are at a standoff, mon cher,” she said. “Until you promise your best effort to win.”

She saw in his face that he still felt undeserving, so on her next turn, she sacrificed her third harpie, leaving only her Amazoness Fighter and The Unfriendly Amazon on the field. He was still hiding behind his scapegoats. The duel was stagnant on both sides.

“Your harpies are your favorite!” Joey burst out. “You can’t—”

“I can do as I please with my monsters.” She stared at him evenly. “And there is no card that matters as much to me as you do, my friend.”

He looked away. “You can’t . . . baby me. I lost, fair and square.”

“Actually, you have not. The match is ongoing, and by the lifepoints, it is anyone’s game.”

“You evened the lifepoints.”

“Indeed, I did drag you back to my level when you were very much in the lead. I hope you will accept the handicap with grace.”

The corner of his lips twitched. Progress.

“As soon as I knew you were a finalist,” she said, “I could not leave Battle City without a match between us. It will take all my skill to beat a focused Joey Wheeler, if it is even possible. As a duelist, I must know.”

“I made a fool of myself,” he muttered, so low she almost didn’t hear it across the space.

“Perhaps.” She smiled. “But is your finest trait to never fall?”

Another twitch. “Nah. I ain’t ever been good at that. Only good at gettin’ up again.” He pulled something from his pocket, stared down at it in his hand. “I’m the underdog.”

Mai smiled. “May I now have a focused Joey Wheeler for my match, s’il te plaît?”

When he looked up, it was with the same stubborn fire he’d shown in Duelist Kingdom. He clenched his fist. “Sorry I kept you waitin’.”

From the platform below, his sister cheered, along with a jab from Tristan that it was “about time.”

“Then it is my turn.” Mai’s smile widened. “In earnest.”

She played the field spell Amazoness Village, giving all Amazoness monsters a 200-point boost to attack power. It also allowed a once-per-turn effect of special-summoning a monster from her deck in exchange for one sent to the graveyard.

“Boy, you ain’t goin’ easy on me.” Joey gave what seemed to be a nervous grin, but the fire was still in his eyes. Win or lose, he was fighting, which was all she’d hoped for.

“I am not an easy opponent,” she said coolly. “You should know.”

She sacrificed her Amazoness Fighter to keep The Unfriendly Amazon on the field. As it slid into her graveyard, her Duel Disk lit up with the phrase _optional summon._ She pulled Amazoness Princess [1200/900] from her deck, reshuffled, and summoned the new monster in defense mode.

“My princess’s special effect also allows me to add a spell or trap from my deck to my hand.”

She pulled the quick-play spell Amazoness Call into her hand and shuffled once more.

“I saw this strategy when you used it against Dice-boy,” Joey said. “You’re gonna fill up your side of the field with monsters and overwhelm me.”

She didn’t bother to warn him that her deck had many strategies. He would soon find out.

“All I gotta do to stop you”—Joey grinned—“is make sure you don’t get that Amazoness Queen on the field.”

“You may try.” She ordered her two monsters to attack, and they each took out one of his scapegoats. “Turn end.”

Mai had no intention of losing, just as she’d had no intention of losing in Duelist Kingdom. If she did, she would be disappointed, but she would also be happy for her friend’s progression.

And she knew that if she won, the same would be true for Joey.

++++++++++

Even after he got his head back in the game, it wasn’t an easy victory for Joey. Mai’s deck was full of more surprises than he’d imagined from her duel in the semi-finals. He managed to stop the summoning of her queen only to discover the queen wasn’t her strongest monster at all—there was an Amazoness Empress to worry about. An empress with 2800 attack, which went up to 3000 thanks to her field spell.

3000 attack points—as much as one of Kaiba’s prize white dragons. And all he had was his Jinzo [2400/1500] to deal with it.

In a normal duel, he would have been toast. She would have chainsawed right through his lifepoints and gutted him. But since it was the backwards Qualifier they were playing, sheer power wasn’t the deciding factor, and that gave him a chance. His lifepoints were at 2100; hers were at 1700. They were both stepping carefully to keep the other person from dropping to zero first. Dancing on a minefield.

He could think of only one way to win, and it was a gamble from start to finish. Every gamble he’d taken in the Qualifier so far had blown up in his face—quite literally. But he was who he was, and his deck hadn’t been built to play it safe.

So he stuck his hand in his pocket, gripped the good-luck pig for all he was worth, and then drew a card, praying it would be the one Duke had given him.

It wasn’t, but he wasn’t beaten yet. He already had Graverobber facedown on the field; he’d meant to use it to steal Mai’s Gallant Gift and send her back up to full lifepoints. Now he had a riskier plan.

“I play Foolish Burial,” he declared, slapping down the spell card he’d just drawn. His deck ejected so he could choose a card to bury.

“Sending a card from your deck to my graveyard.” Mai clucked her tongue at him. “Foolish indeed.”

“Is it?” He smirked and pressed the button for Graverobber. “That card I just gave you? I think I’ll steal it back.”

He held up Orgoth the Relentless [2500/2450].

Betting the whole duel on a card he’d never before used—it was a Joey Wheeler move to the very core.

“I’ll sacrifice my Jinzo and Rocket Warrior to summon Orgoth to the field in attack mode.”

The looming swordsman stepped onto the field, light reflecting from the gold trim on his armor. In bulk alone, he was three times the size of Mai’s empress, and the blade of his sword was as tall as Joey. His winged helmet covered his face, but a pair of yellow eyes gleamed from the darkness behind the visor.

“I recognize that card.” Mai leaned forward. “You have been trading with Monsieur Devlin.”

“Actually”—Joey glanced down and saw Dice-boy grinning from the platform below, one arm around Serenity—“it was a gift.”

Mai raised her eyebrows. “No matter. I have beaten little Orgoth before, and I shall again.”

“Not if he ain’t fightin’ you.” Joey wanted to reach for the lucky pig again, but he kept his focus on the field. It all hinged on this. “I activate his special effect.”

Three dice appeared on the field. Once per turn, Joey could use the dice to power up Orgoth. But he wasn’t looking for power right now. If two of the dice rolled the same number, Orgoth gained a second effect. If all three rolled the same, he gained three.

Joey needed all three effects, so he had to roll all three dice the same. It was do or die.

_ I can’t lose now,  _ he thought. He’d fought so hard on the streets of Battle City, defeated a woman who could literally see the future in the semis, all to make it to the finals. He couldn’t lose on the last step before the line. 

He thought of his dad’s sneer, of his slurred laugh. _“Think you’re good enough?”_

_ One way to find out. _

Even though Mai had helped him, even though he hated the thought of kicking her from the tournament. Even so, he had to keep fighting.

Because Joey Wheeler had something to prove.

“Roll the dice,” he said.

They dropped to the field, tumbling and crashing into each other. The first one landed on a two. The second tipped on its side, hovering. Then it settled as a two.

Joey’s eyes burned and his throat choked.

Because the third die was also a two.

Because he’d gotten everything he’d hoped for.

Because there was one step left—

—and he was good enough.

Thanks to the dice, Orgoth’s attack rose to 3100. In a normal duel, he could have beaten Mai’s empress if not for the facedown trap she had on her side of the field, just waiting to destroy any attacking monster. That was why Joey had needed the first of Orgoth’s additional effects: the one that made it so he couldn’t be destroyed by battle or card effects. The second effect gave Joey two additional cards. The third effect, the clincher, allowed Orgoth a direct attack.

In a normal duel, Joey would have directed it against Mai, and it would have wiped out her remaining lifepoints. But it would do the same to him, and in this backwards duel, that was exactly what he needed.

“He can only direct attack the opponent!” Mai protested.

“Not according to the rules, ma’am,” Fuguta said. “Direct attacks are conducted against players. There is no specification that it can only be opposing players.”

“Unbelievable.” Mai shook her head, but there was a bit of a wry smile on her face.

“Sorry, Mai.” Joey swallowed. “This is it.”

She activated her trap, even though they both knew it was useless. It shattered. But Joey hesitated to declare the attack.

“You earned it,” Mai said.

She’d pulled no punches on the field; he knew that. But if she hadn’t rallied his spirit in the beginning, she could have had an easy victory.

“Thanks, Mai.” He swallowed again. “For bein’ a real friend.”

She smiled. “You earned that, too.”

It wasn’t an easy victory, but Joey ordered the attack. His cart rose through the ceiling, and as it did, he heard Fuguta make the call—Mai Valentine was the eliminated player. Joey Wheeler moved on to the finals. Serenity and his friends cheered for both him and Mai. In his heart, Joey did the same.

And when his cart came to a stop, he swung the railing open, stepped out, and climbed the stairs to the roof.

To the Battle City finals.


End file.
